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SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL, 

A DRAMATIC POEM; 

THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY; 

THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER; 

AND TWENTY SCOTTISH SONGS. 

t BY 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



The native legends of thy land rehearse; 

To such adapt thy lyre. Collins. 



LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR 

TAYLOR AND HESSEY, FLEET STREET. 

1822. 



C. Baldwin, Printer, 
New Bridge-st. London. 



PREFACE. 



The scene of the following Dramatic Poem is laid 
in the beautiful but ruinous Castle of Caerlaverock, on 
the Scottish side of the sea of Sol way ; and the time of 
the story is the close of the Commonwealth under the 
second Cromwell. It is partly traditional and partly 
imaginary; and the manners, feelings, and superstitions, 
are those common to the Scottish peasantry. 

The composition of a Drama on a classic model, and 
in pure and scholastic language, has not, and could not 
be aspired at; but sympathy is not solicited for the 
circumstances under which public notice is courted. 
We care not to know of the impediments which are in 
the way of those who seek to give us delight ; the vulgar 
wonder of a peasant writing verse has no share in the 
spell which is felt by the admirers of Burns. 
a2 



iv PREFACE. 

I pretend not to have courted very assiduously the 
unities of time,, place, and action ; nor to have wholly 
disregarded them. The nature of a dramatic work re- 
quires some such limitation; criticism, neglecting to 
define it, has left it too exclusively perhaps at the will 
of the poet; but an ordinary fancy will not, I hope, re- 
fuse to stretch itself over three days and nights ; nor let 
the little interest the story claims be dissolved like a 
witch's spell, because my native Nith sometimes inter- 
poses its waters between the persons of the Drama. 

The day when dramatic literature threw a charm over 
the multitude is, perhaps, gone past. Those who fre- 
quent our theatres go less to wonder and express de- 
light, than to criticize and find fault ; and the magni- 
tude of our principal play-houses, meeting probably the 
popular taste for spectacle, — requires a play to the eye 
rather than to the heart. Knowledge has had its share 
in this downfall — superstitious beliefs and supernatural 
influences have vanished before instruction, and a limit 
has been assigned to the regions of invention. We do 
not feel like our ancestors the full force of that un- 
earthly impulse which swayed Macbeth ; the call from 
the other world which gave resolution to Hamlet : we 



PREFACE. * v 

believe not in the divining-rod of Prospero — nor expect 
to see the shadowy succession of Banquo's royal pro- 
geny arising at the call of an old woman on the heath 
of Fores. 

Though this Dramatic Poem is not, perhaps, unfitted 
for representation, yet I did not write it altogether with 
that view; my chief wish has been to excite interest in 
the reader by a natural and national presentation of 
action and character. That the ludicrous stands some- 
times nigh the serious, and idle and capricious fancies 
mingle with matters of importance and gravity, is a 
charge which may be made, but it seems more the fault 
of the world than mine ; such has human nature ever 
appeared to me. 

Of the Ballads and Songs which close the volume, it 
is unnecessary to say much. They are taken almost at 
random from a mass of verse, which the leisure or idle- 
ness of many winter evenings accumulated. Several 
have already been printed in various lyrical publica- 
tions, others appear now for the first time. If I have 
allowed the former to retain all the original remissness 
of melody and homely simplicity of manner and expres- 

a3 



ri PREFACE. 

sion in which they found their way to the world it was 
not without consideration. I owe to them some of the 
best friendships of my life ; and I am not certain but 
in their somewhat antique rudeness of manner which 
associates them with the elder lyrics of Scotland, lies the 
chief charm which they possess. 

I cannot resist this opportunity of saying, that the 
Mermaid of Galloway has obtained some celebrity, from 
a painting by Mr. Hilton, R.A. in the gallery of Sir 
John Leicester. 

London, March, 1822. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
Preface , iii 

Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, a Dramatic Poem 1 

Ballads. 

The Mermaid of Galloway.... 137 

Legend of Richard Faulder, Mariner 153 

Soxgs. 

Know ye the Fair One whom I love 173 

Bonnie Lady Ann 1/4 

My ain Countrie 176 

I'll gang nae mair to yon town 177 

The Wanton Wife 179 

A weary bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down 181 

The Lass of Preston Mill 183 

The Laverock dried his wings i' the sun.... 186 

The Broken Heart of Annie 187 

Bright stars dinna peep in 189 

The Young Maxwell , 190 

The Shepherd seeks his glowing hearth 191 

Thou hast vow'd by thy faith, my Jeanie 192 

My Nanie-o 194 

My Heart is in Scotland * 195 

The Mariner 197 

Lord Randal 198 

Bonnie Mary Halliday 199 

O my Love is a Country Lass 201 

The Lord's Marie 202 

Glossary , 205 



SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 



Adieu ! Dumfries, my proper place. 

But and Caerlaverock fair ! 
Adieu ! my castle of the Thrieve, 

Wi' a' my buildings there : 
Adieu ! Lochmaben's gates sae fair, 

The Langholm-holme where birks there be ; 
Adieu ! my Ladye and only joy, 

For trust me I may not stay with thee. 

Lord MaxxveWs Goodnight, 



PERSONS IN THE DRAMA. 

Lord Walter Maxwell,, of Caerlaverock. 

Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, his son. 

Halbert Comyne, cousin to Lord Maxwell. 

Sir John Gourlay, ■> 

Hubert Dougan, j 

Edward Neal, ^followers of Halbert Comyne. 

John Dingwall, 

Claud Hogan, J 

Simon Graeme, ** friends of Sir Marmaduke Max- 

Mark Macgee, J well. 

Auld Penpont. 

Captains, Royalists, Soldiers, Shepherds, and Servants. 

Lady Maxwell. 

Mary Douglas, of Cumlongan. 

May Mori son, her maid. 

Mabel Moran. 

Maidens. 

Spirits. 



SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. Solway Shore. Night 

Spirits unseen. 
Sea Spirit. Hail, spirit; cease thy pastime — hillock high 
Thy multitude of waters,, till the foam 
Hang in the hollow heaven. I scent the course 
Of a dread mortal, whom ten thousand fiends 
Herald to deeds of darkness. 

River Spirit. Come, my streams 

Of fairy Nith, of hermit Clou den clear, 
And moorland Annan — come too, gentle Ae — 
And meet the Solway ; and be loosed, ye winds 
Which mock the proudest cedars into dust — 
Come, mar his sinful course. 

Sea Spirit. Lo ! now he comes ; 

I see him shoot through green Arbigland bay ; 
The smiling sea- waves sing around his prow, 
Wooed by the melody, flung sweet and far, 
From merry flute and cymbal. Lo ! he comes ; 
Say, shall he go unchasten'd through our floods ? 

River Spirit. His helmet plume shall drink my mir- 
kest surge. 

B 



2 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 

I have no lack of waters, such as smack 
Of the world's corruption. I have secret floods, 
Embrown' d with cut-throats' dust ; waves tumbling red 
With the gore of one w T hose hands were never wash'd 
From the blood of strangled babes. 

Sea Spirit. Of every crime 

That cries from earth to heaven, I have a stain ; 
So rise, ye surges. Are ye slow to rise 
Against the homeward sea-boy, when he sees 
Lights in his mother's dwelling by the foot 
Of lonely CrifTel ? Rise, ye surges, rise ! 
Leap from the oozy bottom, where the bones 
Of murderers fester — from the deepest den, 
Where he who perish'd, plotting murder, lies; 
Come from the creek where, when the sun goes down, 
The haunted vessel sends her phantom troops 
Of fiery apparitions. Come, as I call ; 
And come, too, heaven's wild wind. Pour the deep sea 
Prone on yon ship that bears five unbless'd mortals- 
Spirit, let us work. 



SCENE II. Solway Shore. 

Enter Mark Macgee. 
Macgee. Even now the moon rode bright in heaven, 
the stars 
Gleam'd numerous, and in the cold blue north 
The lights went starting ; nor a breath of wind 
Disturb'd the gentle waters. Grim as the pit, 



Sc.2. SCR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 3 

Glooms now the space between the heaven and earth ; 
The stars are blotted out; and the mute surge, 
That wooed so sweet the pebbles on the beach. 
Gives its wreathed foam to dark Caerlaverock pines, 
And to the darkness seems, as if a tongue 
To speak of woe were given. 

( Sto rm — thunder an d fire, ) 

Dread heaven, I bow 
To thy behest. Comes this storm but to fright 
The desert air of midnight ? or hast thou 
Some fearful purpose in it ? Hark ! a cry ! 

(Storm continues — Cries of distress from the sea; and 
enter from the surge Halbert Comyne, Hubert 
Dougan, Neal, Hogan, and Dingwall.) 

Comyne. Now, Solway* let thy rudest billows dash 
Upon the shore five fathorn deep abreast. 
Lo ! here I am_, safe on the green grass sod. 

Dougan. One foot length of this good rough ground is 
worth 
A world of waters when the wind is loosed. 

Neal. This cold and cursed water chills my blood : 
Confound thee, ravenous ocean, thou hast drank 
My precious liquor up. 

Dougan. Be wise and mute ! 

Didst thou not hear wild voices talk 1 the blast? 
Didst thou not see dread sights ? see horrible shapes 
Shake gleaming daggers at us ? All the sails 
Seem'd changed to shrouds ; uncoffind corses stalk'd 
Visibly on the deck. 

Comyne. Hush, Hubert Dougan : fear, 

b 2 



4 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act L 

Like fancy, fashion'd forth those godless shapes ; 
And our eyes, so imagination will'd, 
FilFd the ship with shapes terrific, and a tongue 
Fearful and ominous lent the sounding surge. 

Macgee. Lo ! has the storm spared these ? or have the 
fiends 
Forged them i' the war of elements, and sent 
Their spectral progeny to fright the world 
With ghastly faces ? Speak ! May a poor man 
Call you God's mortal workmanship, or forms 
Sent here to stir the dead with doomsday looks? 

Neal. E'en reeking from the nethermost abyss 
Of darkness, I assure you. Man, hast thou 
Got any drink for devils ? Spare one drop. 

Mac. 'Faith, thoumayst pass with holier men than me 
For a fierce whelp of Satan's rudest brood. 
The roughest fiend that wallows in the lake 
Would start at these wild features, and would yell 
And boggle at thy shadow. 

Dougan. Peasant, peace : 

Nor let the terrors of a rough rude heart 
Thus wrong an honest eye. 

Macgee. Has that deep sea 

Not raised its voice against you ? But I will speak. — 
The Solway is a gentle sea, good Sir, 
To men of gentle mood ; but, oh ! 'tis rough, 
And stern, and dark, and dangerous, to those 
Who cherish thoughts unjust or murderous. 

Corny ne. How sweet the west wind courts this clover 
bank, 



Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 5 

And breathes on one as with a maiden's lips. 

Dougan. My lord talks courtship to this pleasant land ; 
And it indeed looks lovely. Now thy helm, 
Dinted with sabre strokes, must be unplumed, 
And made a milkmaid's bowl : thy sword, so famed 
For cleaving steel caps, as the trumpet sung, 
Will make a damsel's distaff: and we'll hang 
Our pennon, soil'd in the grim surge of war, 
To scare the crows from corn. 

Comyne. Hush ; keep thy blade 

With a good edge on't. We may yet find work 
Worth keeping a dirk to do. 

Hogan. Now, by the print 

O' the bless'd foot of St. Patrick, I do swear 
Peace is a pleasant thing : I quit acquaintance 
With six inches of cold steel. Now I'll go seek 
A special oak staff, and a good friend's head 
To try its merits on. Friend, were this land 
Nigh the green hills of Lurgan, it would have 
A name worth asking after. 

Macgee. This land has 

An ancient name — a proverb'd one for sweets 
Of every hue : here at the brightening morn 
A thousand homes all fill'd with happy ones 
Send up their smoke to heaven. A thousand hinds 
Furrow the fallow land. A thousand maids, 
Fresh as unripen'd roses, comb white flax, 
Press the warm snowy curd, or blythely turn 
The fragrant hay-swathe to the western wind. 
Here too ascends at morn, or dewy eve, 



6 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 

The melody of psalm and saintly prayer ; 
Nor lack we here song of impassion'd bard, 
And saws of sacred sages. When thou paintest 
A place where angels might repose their plumes 
From heavenly journey ings, call it Caerlaverock, 
So then the world may credit what thou sayest. 

Corny ne. Ah, Hubert ! well I know this ancient shore : 
Barefooted 'mongstits shells and pebbles, far 
IVe chaced the lapwing. Fast too have I flown, 
Nor fear'd the quicksand quivering 'neath my foot, 
To match the rushing pellock with my speed : 
No stone uplifts its mossy crown but brings 
Of me some story with it ; every hawthorn 
Has got a tale to tell ; and that pine grove 
Could gossip things would glad the envious ear 
Of wrinkled dames demure. Now twenty summers 
Of burning suns, 'mid warfare's rough caress, 
Have brown' d my temples since that soft breeze blew 
That belly' d my parting sail. 

Neal. Look here, my lord ; 

Lo ! here I stand, all dripping wet, and drench' d 
In this same land of loveliness, and shed 
The sea brine from me, like a tree on which 
Rain has been newly shower'd. 

Dougan. Now, peasant, say, 

Is there some rushy cot, or cavern, near — 
Some hermitage, or vaulted castle old, 
To whose hoar sides flame would strange lustre lend. 
And save us from being frozen 'neath the moon 
To winter icicles. 



Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 7 

Macgee. Yes, gentle Sir ! 

I know an old house — but it lacks the roof; 
I know a cavern — but its mouth is shut 
By an earthquake-loosen' d stone ; a castle's near, 
With vaults and arches vast, and grated walls — 
But this rude river, by a sudden rush, 
Has given a current to its marble floor 
Where thou may est float a barge. I know a cot, 
A trim and neat one, with a fire that gilds 
The polish' d rooftree ; flagons too are there, 
With precious aquavitae : that cot is mine : 
But, by yon moon, I see no aspect here 
That's made to grace an honest man's abode. 
To him who sent you, I commend you ; a grim one ; 
Even him who hides his cloven foot i' the storm. 

(Exeunt.) 

SCENE III. Caerlaveroch Wood. 

Enter Halbert Comyne, Hubert Dougan, Neal, 
Hogan, and Dingwall. 
Dougan. This seems some tower o' the fancy — its 
foundation 
Flits 'fore us like a shadow. 

Enter Mabel Mo ran. 
Neal. Who comes here ? 

A rude gray beldame come in cantraip time 
To mount her ragwort chariot, and to quaff 
Good wine with the pole star. 



8 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 

Dingwall. My hoary dame, 

1 do beseech thee, keep thy foot on the sod ; 
There's forms to night i' the air, raging- unloosed 
From the flaming glen thou wot'st of, who might jolt 
Thee from thine airy saddle, and would singe 
Thy pike staff to a cinder. 

Mabel. Reaver Rob ! 

The wind thatblaws thee here 's from a black airt; 
Among my hen-roosts, thy two hands are worse 
Than the teeth of twenty foumarts. Saul to gude ! 
His presence too be near us ! Who art thou ? 

Corny ne. My good and reverend dame, we hapless 
ones 
Have come from a far nook of foreign earth — 
No midnight reavers we, but men whose swords 
Were bared in God's high quarrel ; we have felt 
Rough weather on the deep, and seek i' the gloom 
Lord Walter Maxwell's mansion. Wouldst thou trust 
Thy foot i' the dew to show the path that winds, 
Through planting, park and woodland, to the gate 
Of thy lord's dwelling ; I'll requite each drop 
That gems thy hair, with a fair piece of silver. 

{Offers money.') 

Mabel. Put up your gold, man — for the dark deep 
sea's 
Too dread a place wherein to gather gold, 
To scatter it in moonlight. So ye swam 
For your sweet lives ? And, by my sooth, that's true ; 
Ye 're dripping like the wing o' the water hen. 
The Sol way is a sinful flood, sweet Sir; 



Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 9 

On many a fair face has it feasted : it 
Has muckle dool to answer for. 

Dougan. I've heard 

In foreign lands men call 't the bloody water. 
Is yon Lord Maxwell's castle, 'mongst the groves 
On which the moon is gleaming ? 

Mabel, Three lang miles, 

Weary and dark, through mire, and moss, and wood, 
Have you to wend, and find no bigged wall 
Save this poor sheal. But in the Solway flow 
Ye'd better be to the neck, wf Will o' the wisp 
Shining aside you, than at my hearth stone 
Sit till the morning. Ye'll have heard from the Turks 
How Mabel's house is haunted. There came once 
A gifted man — a soul's well wisher — one 
Whom men call'd Shadrach Peden. In he came, 
WT " peace be here ; " and, " Dame, thou'rt sore 

beset 
Wi' sprites of the sinful and permitted fiends." 
" Aye, well I wot that's true," quoth I. He drew 
A circle and a cross, and syne began 
Stark controversy for a stricken hour. 
But, Sirs, the fiends wax'd strong and fearful, and 
The saint grew faint and frail. " Mabel," quo' he, 
w There's no perfection in flesh." 

Dougan. Truce, holy dame : 

Lift thy door latch, and let us have one hour 
Of fellowship with thy fiends— feel the warm glow 
So ruddy at thy window : I dread more 
Pit-falls and darkness, than the pranks of spirits : 



10 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 

I'd liefer sleep wi' the arch fiend at mine elbow, 

Than grope my way through moss, and mire, and flood. 

Hogan. IVe had enough of dismal forms aud faces; 
For cursed shapes paced on the splintering deck ; 
And 'tween Arbigland and Caerlaverock bay, 
Each wave seem'd rife with moans of dying men ; 
My sword caught drops of reeking blood upon it ; 
My hands smelt horribly warm with murder's work ; 
And I'll brave hell no more. 

Dingwall. Faith, I'm not one 

1*6 sit and sigh out prayers, and mournful psalms, 
Aside this beldame's hearth, with a charm'd ring 
Of wiseman's chalk to bound one from the fiends. 

Neal. Witch, hast thou got one cup of barley dew ? 
Or most unrighteous brandy ? or one drop 
Of meek and saintly sack ? That cursed sea 
Has turn'd my weazon to a thoroughfare 
For its unblessed water. 

Mabel. What sayest thou 

To a cup o' the rarest juice of bloomed ragwort ? 
Or bonnie hollow hemlock, stark and brown ? 

Neal. Carlin ! cursed carlin ! keep such drink to cheer 
Thy Hallowmass gossips. 

Dougan. Now, my sage good dame, 

We leave thy gleaming hearth to trooping spectres ; 
We love not to carouse with such companions, 
Nor shake hands with visionary fingers. So 
This is the way, thou sayest ? 

Mabel. Yes, gentle Sir. 

Now look on yon bright star, and mark my words. 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 11 

The tryster tree pass, where the pedlar lad 
Got his neck broke, and by the yellow hair 
Was hung among the branches. Then pass too 
The dead man's loup, where our town tailor drown'd 
Himself, for fair Peg Primrose. Pass the moss, 
The bogle-moss, still haunted by the ghost 
Of poor Tarn Watson — ane whom I kenn'd weel : 
He wooed the gypsy's daughter, and forgot 
Caerlaverock had fair faces. He was found 
One summer morning ; but the cauld sharp aim 
Had cross'd his weazon, and his ghost aye goes 
With its right hand at its throat. Pass that, and syne 
Ye'll see a belted huntsman cut in stone, 
A bugle at his belt, which ye maun blow, 
If ye would have swift tidings. I have said 
My say, and so God prosper good intents. 

{Exeunt Halbert Comyne, 3$c) 

Mabel Moran, alone. 
Thank heaven and hamely wit for this good riddance ! 
Now woe unto me, had I raised the latch 
Of my warm shealing to such unbless'd loons, 
They'd ta'en my gold, and made a ghost of me. 
God ward Lord Maxwell, and his bonnie lady ; 
I'll through the wood, and warn them. Good red gold, 
And decent folk, will soon grow scarce, if knaves 
Like these long carry swords. (Exit A 



12 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 



SCENE IV. Caerlaverock Wood. Night. 

Sir Marmaduke. Maxwell., alone. 
Sir M. Thou fair tall tree, may the sharp axe ne'er smite 
Thy shapely stem ; may birds of sweetest song 
Among thy branches build : here first I met 
My gentle love. Lo ! now she comes. How blest 
The greensward is that carpets her white foot ! 
Bless thee, fair lingerer, I have number'd nigh 
The crowded stars that stud yon western heaven. 

Enter Mary Douglas. 

Mary D. Say am I come to hear some curious tale 
Of fairy raid and revel quaintly mix'd 
With antique tales of love ? Come, thou wilt tell me 
Some soft and gentle story : thou wilt lay 
Thy cheek to mine, and whisper thus, lest stars 
Should hear thee, and turn tell-tales. Have I guess' d ? 

Sir M. I've got a quaint and curious tale to tell 
Of one who loved a maid, dear as the hope 
Of heaven to human soul : but heaven smiled not 
Upon their loves : there came a parting hour ; 
And with that hour came bitter dread, lest they 
Should meet no more again. 

Mary Douglas. Thine eyes are grave. 

Has some new woe come o'er them as a cloud ? 
Tell me what moves thee ; else I'll rashly deem 
Some blessed star my rival, and go forth 
And rail against its radiance. 



Sc. 4. SIR 3IARMADUKE MAXWELL. 13 

Sir Marmaduke, My true love, 

The ancient glory has gone from our house, 
And we like beadsmen sit and quote sage saws, 
While weeds have grown, and topp'd the noble cedars ; 
The clouted shoe has kick'd the golden round 
From the bright brow of majesty ; the axe 
Supplants the sceptre ; and the awful law 
Devours as an unheeded fire, even those 
It was but meant to warm. Some noble spirits 
Are ripe for loyal deeds — so farewell, love ; 
Thou'lt make for me a garland or a shroud. 

Mary D. Is this the close then of the truest love ? 
It was too tender and too kind to last — 
Alas ! I dream'd not of ungentle war: m 
It is a fearful thing — war, where the odds 
Will make gods of the winners, is a game 
That charms the noble, but makes poor maids' eyes 
Moist with perpetual tears. Go, my love, go — 
Yet all my thoughts were still on gentle themes; 
On twilight walks aside the shaded brooks ; 
Of songs by moonlight on the castle top ; 
Of merry-makings when the corn was ripe; 
Of building sunny homes for hoary men ; 
And thou wert ever there with thy grave smile : 
But thou wilt find some higher love, when fame 
Has deck'd thy helmet, and the laughing eyes 
Of noble dames are on thee. 

Sir Marmaduke. I shall be 

True as these stars are to the cold clear sky ; 
True as that streamlet to its pebbly bed; 
True as green CrifTel to her stance ; and true 



14 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 

As birds to song in summer. Smile, my love, 
For I may yet return 'mid many a shout 
And song- of welcome. 

Mary Douglas. I'll go with thee, love — 

'Tis sweet even in hot battle to be by 
The side of one we love — to hear his voice, 
Big as the martial trumpet, call u come on ; " 
To see his raised arm wither strong men's strength 
Into the might of babes — see 'neath his steed 
The helms of chieftain's lie, and his course be 
Where steeds soon lack their riders. 

Sir Marmaduke. No — I swear 

By one sweet kiss of thy pure, eloquent lips, 
Thou must not go, but sit upon thy tower; 
And, like a lily, look toward the west. — 
Lo ! who come here ? all men of martial mien : 
Nay, tarry, love ; no harm can happen thee. 

Enter Halbert Comyne, Hubert Dougan, <%c. 

Dougan. Now gentlest greeting to thee, gentle youth ; 
Lo ! we are strangers, whom the stormy sea 
Has cast upon your coast. In this land lives 
The good Lord Maxwell — we would gladly be 
The good lord's guests to-night. 

Sir Marmaduke. Well are we met — 

And I will gladly guide you to his hall, 
Where you'll find welcome large and princely cheer. 

Com. What lovely woodland maiden's this — she stands 
With her dark eyes so downcast. Have I lived 
So many summer suns 'mongst beauteous dames, 
To fall in love by moonlight ? Gentle one 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 15 

Comest thou to gem thy curling locks with dew, 
Or comest thou forth the homeward hind to charm ; 
He ceases song, and, gazing on thee, says, 
Do angels visit here ? Long have I sought 
For beaming eyes, and glowing lips like thine, 
That seem so ripe for pressing. Let me try. 

Mary D. I'm a poor dweller in this woodland, Sir, 
And all uncustom'd to such fair free words, 
And more to such frank action. 

Sir Marmaduke. Sir ! free Sir ; 

Those who seek fruit on a forbidden tree 
May break their neck i' the climbing. 

Corny ne. This a churl ? 

This is no peasant trimm'd for the tryste hour. {Aside.) 
Now pardon, fair one — and for thee, proud youth, 
If my free speech had an ungentle sound, 
Forget it for the sake of those dark eyes 
That made a soldier err. 

Dougan. Away — avaunt — 

Thou painted mischief — for such sweet and trim 
And rose and lily limmers, the bright swords 
Of soldiers blush'd — for such a one as thee 
I've seen sworn brothers ruby their sharp blades, 
While the fair she-fiend plaited her long locks, 
And smiled, and smiled. Come on now, gentle youth ; 
Come, grace us with thy guidance. 

{Exeunt Dougan, fyc.) 

Halbert Comyne, alone. 
Comyne.. This is a lady I should love alone 



16 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act L 

Aneath the gentle moon — some such sweet time 
May yet o'ertake me ; I'm not one that wooes 
With harp in hand, and ballad on my tongue, 
'Neath winter casements — nor love much to measure 
Dark moors at midnight, nor cross drowning streams 
On ice an inch thick, for a cold maid's smile ; 
No damsel doats on these romantic youths ; 
All their talk is o' the perilous attempt 
Of dizzy casements — then they sit and tell 
What shooting stars they saw — how the pale moon 
Caught one large star between her crooked horns, 
And they stood marvelling for a stricken hour. 
How many moor flames burn'd upon the hills ; 
How frequent o'er their heads the night bird sung : 
How many times their shadow seem'd a goblin, 
And set their hair on end. Then they sigh deep, 
And ask what time o' the night 'tis, and pray heaven 
May warm the morning dew. (Exit.) 

SCENE V. Caerlaverock Castle. 

Mark Macgee, Penpont, and Servants. 
Pen. Say'st thou, I love red wine better than water; 
A rosy lass in hawslock gray, before 
A hoary dame in satin and soft silk ? 
Thou skilful man in tarry fleeces — rot- 
Murrain — leaping-illness, and red water ; 
Comrade to Tweed, to Yarrow, Ringwood Whitefoot, 
What sayest thou against the pastime sweet 



Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 17 

Of lasses' lips. — Thou supperer on sorrow, 

And diner on mortification— Scatterer 

O* the bleeding members torn from scripture parable, 

What sayest thou to wine and maidens' lips ? 

Macgee. Now I must measure this fool-man his corn 
With his own bushel {aside) — I have much to say : 
Thou turn'st thy back on the milk and honey vale 
For the flesh-pots o' the heathen. Thou dost sleep 
Where Satan spreads thy pillow ; — thy salvation 
Is in the larder and the vintage press, 
And thy redemption in warm drink. Fear not; 
The day will come when thou wilt have hot drink, 
Hotter than lips can cooFt ; companions too, 
Grim ones ; rosie dames thou'lt lack not, nor 
The fauns with cloven heel. There thou It carouse 
With the plump and willing lady, who doth sit 
O' the top of the seven hills. 

Penpont. Thou gifted lecturer 

On the discipline of flesh, far hast thou chased 
Mirth from the land ; the twang of a harp-string 
Has not been heard since holy Ramoth Gilead 
Lift up his voice against the burning shame 
Of satin slippers, and the soot-black sin 
Of silken snoods. Now Mark, the Wiseman, what 
Sayest thou to this ? 

Macgee. Aye, aye ! thou lovest the pride 

And vanity of flesh, and proud apparel, 
Perfumed locks, bared bosoms, and the hour 
For climbing to maids' casements, chambering, 
And wantonness. All have not mired them so 



18 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 

In the lusts of life. Aye,, aye ! I mind her well ; 
Jane Proudfoot was her name ; proud by the name 
Indeed was she, and proud by nature, and 
Own'd a rich voice that made a psalm note sound 
Sweet as a sinful song. Aye, sore she tried 
To catch me in the meshes of the flesh ; 
'Twas at a Quarrel wood-preaching, many a glance 
Threw she on me ; shook all her fine apparel, 
Like a proud steed rein'd up both neck and eye ; 
Spread forth her painted plumage, and swam past 
Wi her beauty and her bravery. I sigh'd, 
And read my Bible. 

Penpont. Seest thou this pikestaff? 

Some thirty years ago it grew i' the wood, 
A braw brown hazel, and has borne my weight 
Since then to kirk and market — I would dibble it 
Deep in the earth, and water it with the hope 
Of cracking its brown nuts, had this fair dame, 
Jane Proudfoot, thaw'd an icicle like thee. 

Enter Mabel Mohan. 

Mabel. Now, peace be here; Saint Allan be your watch; 
Say, where is Walter Maxwell ? 

Penpont Conscience, carlin ! 

Hast thou been casting cantraips and witch-pranks 
Neath the cold moon till a water-spout fell on thee ? 
Or hast thou sought the black-bear's dugs, beyond 
The polar star, to lythe thy cauldron sauce ; 
Or pluck' d a drowned sailor from the bottom 
Of Solway, for the tar beneath his nail ? 



Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 19 

. Mabel. Take thou this good brass bodle; hold thy 
tongue ; 
Did e'er thy wisdom bring thee so much gain ? 
Wilt thou prate still ? do, if thy weazon 's steel, 
And cares for no sharp knife. For they are near 
Whose hands would choke thee, teaching men the 

charm, 
To save the world from sinking. Let me go ; 
Else I shall freeze thee to a drop of ice, 
And hang thee 'neath the moon. 

Penpont. Lo ! woman, woman, 

I care not for thee ; in my bonnet stem 
I wear a plant can make thy cauldron sauce 
As harmless as new milk. For it was thou 
Who sunk the boat, with many a precious soul, 
Crossing the river for a cast of grace 
At godly Quarrelwood. I know thee well. 
Thou in the form of a fair youth beset 
That saintly damsel, May Macrone, among 
The green broom of Dalswinton, and made tight 
The string o' her apron. And thou shook'st the Kirk 
O' Kirkmabreek aboon sweet Shadrach Peden, 
When, to the Galloway heathen, he cried, Clap 
The fire o' hell to their tails. 

Mabel. Peace — hold thy peace — 

And hold my staff till I seek Walter Maxwell. 

Pen. Thy staff! I'd sooner touch the brazen serpent 
That drew the saints to sin. Go cast it down 
Into that hot-pit o'er which thou'lt be hung 
Till the buckles melt in thy shoon. 



20 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act I. 

Mabel. Hold my witch staff, 

Else I shall turn it to a fisher rod, 
And thee into a fiend, and make thee angle 
Till doom i' the dub o' darkness. (Exit.) 

Penpont. Fearful woman ! 

This staff of hers was cut what time the moon 
Was i' the wane, and she works cantraips with it, 
There's devilish virtue in it, that from the wisest 
Can win their best resolves ; can make gray hairs 
Grow wanton ; make a peasant beldame, clad 
In hodan, seem a lady robed in silk 
Wi' a sark of sneap-white holland. It should burn, 
But tis no earthly fire that may consume it; 
And it might turn me, by some cursed prank, 
Into a wonder for the world to gaze at. (Exeunt.) 



*k ENE VI. Caerlaverock halL 

Lord Walter Maxwell and Lady Maxwell. 

.Lady Maxwell. Thou must not stand on earth like a 
carved saint 
Which men do bow to, but which ne'er returns 
Their gratulation. 

Lord Maxwell. Love, there is a voice 
Still whispering, that all we love or hate — 
All we admire, exalt, or hope to compass, 
Till the stars wax dim amid our meditation, 
Is but as words graved on the ocean sands, 
Which the returning tide blots out for ever. 



Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 21 

For I'm grown sick of the world's companionship, 
Of camp and city, and life's pomp — the song 
Of bards impassion'd who rank earth's gross dust 
With things immortal — of the gladsome sound 
Of dulcimer and flute — the corrupt tongue 
O' the shrewd politician. O ! for a rude den 
In some vast desart — there I'd deem each star 
That lumined me in loneliness was framed 
To coronet my brows — that the bloom' d bough 
On which the wild bees clustered, when its scent 
Fill'd all the summer air, graced my hand more 
Than a dread sceptre : and the little birds 
Would know us, love ; the gray and pleasant wren 
Would hang her mansion for her golden young 
Even in our woodland porch. 

Lady Maxwell. Thy country's woes 

Have robb'd thee of thy peace — have pluck'd thy spirit 
Down from its heaven, and made sweet sleep to thee 
The bitterest bliss of life. 

Lord Maxwell. Is there a bosom 

Full of a loyal heart? — Is there a knee 
That seeks the dust at eve ? — a holy tongue, 
Whose orisons find heaven ? a noble mind, 
Whose pure blood has flow'd down through the pure 

veins 
Of a thousand noble bosoms? — a brave man 
Who loves his country's ancient name and law, 
And the famed line of her anointed kings ? 
Oh heaven ! give him swift wings : the sword, the rack 
The halter, and whet axe hold him in chace, 



22 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act I. 

And make a den of Scotland, for the fiends 
To howl and revel in. 

Lady Maxwell But shall we sit, 

Even as the dove does on the doom'd tree-top, 
Until the axe strews to the weazel's tooth 
Her young ones in their down : — shall we go cast 
Life's heavenly jewel to the pit; and page, 
With cap and cringing knee, him, matched with whom 
A murderer's hand is milkwhite, and the brow 
Of a gross peasant smutch' d with hovel soot 
The brow of an archangel ? 

Lord Maxwell. Say no more : — 

My Scotland, whilst one stone of thine is left 
Unturn'd by ruin's plowshare — while one tree 
Grows green untouch'd by the destroyer's axe- 
While one foundation stone of palace or church, 
Or shepherd's hovel, stands unmoved by 
The rocking of artillery — while one stream 
Though curdling with warm life's blood, can frequent 
Its natural track — while thou hold'st holy dust 
Of princes, heroes, sages, though their graves 
Flood ankle-deep in gore ; O, I will love thee, 
And weep for thee ; — and fight for thee, while heaven 
Lends life, and thy worst foes are but of flesh, 
And can feel temper'd steel. 

Lady Maxwell. Oh ! had we here 

Him thou so lovest, thy fiery cousin, he 
Who would have heir'd thee had I not been blest 
Above all hope in winning thee — he was 
One bold in thought, and sudden in resolve; 



Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 23 

In execution swifter :— Halbert Comyne, 
Of thee our peasants love to talk, and draw 
Thy martial aspect and thy merry glance 
Among the maids at milking time. Yet they 
Pause mid their rustic charactering, and cough, 
And with a piece of proverb or old song 
They close the tale, look grave, and shake the head, 
\nd hope thou may'st be blest and bide abroad. — 

Enter Mabel Mohan. 

Lord Maxwell. Thou hast not come at this dark 
hour for nought : 
What means thy hurried foot, and that sharp glance 
That carries warning with it ? 

MabeL Bless thy kind heart — 

This night as I stood on my threshold-stone, 
Clear glow'd the moon, nought spake save the sweet 

tongue 
Of one small rill — even as I stood and bless'd 
Night's loveliness, a beauteous star was thrown 
From heaven upon thy house, and as it fell 
The moon was blotted out and darkness came, 
Such as the hand might grope. What this might 

bode 
Small space had I to ponder till the groan 
Of one in mortal agony was borne 
I' the rush o' the blast ; with it there came a sound 
Like Annan in its flood, and a dread fire 
Ran on the ground. Amid the brightness came 
Forms visible, their faces smear' d with blood — 



24 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act. I. 

And on their backs,, a piteous sight, they bore 

Thy form, Lord Walter Maxwell ; from thy locks, 

The locks that maidens loved, thick dropped the blood ; 

They bore thee to a visionary grave. 

Ere thrice I bless'd myself, there came a wind 

And swept the earth of this dread pageantry : 

I stood rooted with fear. — Some mortal thing 

I prayed that I might speak to, and straight came 

Men through the wood — five stately men, who told 

Of perils great they scaped from, and enquired 

The footpath to thy hall. Now, Walter Maxwell, 

Gird to thy side thy sword, and clasp the hand 

Of those thou welcomest, with a glove of steel ; 

For two of these five mortals wore the looks 

Of those dread ones i' the vision. Admonition 

Comes as a dose i' the death-pang, if thou deem'st 

I either dream or dote. 

Lord Maxwell My sage good dame, 

A cot I'll build thee neath my castle wall ; 
For that wild glen thou livest in yields ripe things 
About the full of the moon. {A horn is blown.) 

Mabel. There sounds thy doom— 

Woe to thy house ! And now, let the hoar head 
Of him whose tongue was reverenced for sage saws 
When I was but a baby, — the green youth, — 
Like corn 1 the shot-blade, when the staff of life 
Is yet as milk 1 the ear, — on whose soft chin 
The beard's unbudded, — the matron in whose ear 
Grandmother has been music,— the sweet babe 
Whose tender lips hold yet the mother's milk 



Sc. G. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 25 

Uncurdled — haste ! All, fly this doomed house — 
I hear the death groans — lo ! I see the dirks 
Reek warm with murder's work — see ! the blood drops 
Thick dappling all thy walls — along the floor 
Men stride in blood to the buckles,, and grim throngs 
Of fiery spectres welcome those whose veins 
Are yet unsluiced with steel. I'll see no more, 
But fly thy dwelling, though my footsteps lay 
O'er acres of dead men — and I were paged 
By all the fiends o' the pit. (Exit.) 

(Horn blows louder.) 
Lord Maxwell. Now hasten thou, 

And see who summons thus our doors, and what 
This visitation means. (Exit Servant.) 

Perhaps some one 
From a far land, who hopes to find his home 
Smiling with kindred faces. — In the grave 
Lie those who loved him — in the battle field 
With glorious Grahame they died : on Marston Moor 
Perchance they sleep : by private guile fell they — 
By the swift carbine, or the whetted axe, 
And all the cruel and the crafty ways 
In which rebellion works. 

Enter Servant. 
Servant. My lord, a chief 

Of martial mien, with followers four, scarce scaped 
The raging Solway, seeks to be thy guest. 

Lord Maxwell. Give them my castle's welcome; 
bring them hither. (Exit Servant) 



26 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 

Penpont. (Aside.) Where's the dame flown to, whom 
the foul fiend loves ? 
Far famed is she for giving a rough guess 
How the world will wag. Lord Maxwell speaks her 

fair, 
'Tis well his part — the boy-lord ne'er had come 
Wi' a scream to the world, except for her two hands — 
She loosed five witch knots, and the sweet bairn came. 
Aye, by my sooth, well see what comes of this ; 
Who deal wi' hags may dread a kittle cast. 

Enter Halbert Comyne and his Companions. 

Lord Maxwell. Stranger, I give thee welcome, though 
thy visit 
Should strike my castle's cope-stone to the moat. 

Com. 'Tis spoke with noble heart. Could I cast off 
The marks of many years of warfare rough 
On persecutor's crests, the scars i' the front, 
Won in the edge of peril-— bid the sun 
Wooe off his burning courtship from my cheek, — 
Then wouldst thou clasp me, though my linked mail 
Were wreath'd with crested snakes. Not know me yet? 
Look on this good sword, 'twas a good man's gift, 
I've proved its edge on plates of Milan steel. 

Lord Maxwell. My Halbert Comyne? mine own 
gallant cousin ? 
And this is thou ? thrice bless thee, my brave Halbert : 
And thou art safe ? wounds on the cheek and brow, 
No more — they say they were found in glory's walk. 
Not know thee ? thee I dream about, even thee 



Sc. G. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 27 

Whom I have borne so often on my back 

Through the mirk pools of Nith: — thou'rt changed indeed, 

From May's sweet blossom to September's brown; 

And hast a voice for that of soft nineteen 

Like to the martial trumpet. Welcome him, 

My fair one ; forth with the white hand that made 

Me blessed : call my son ; bring him, though he 

Had won the love of some particular star 

To his harp and poet song. 

Lady Maxwell. 'Welcome, thrice welcome : 

The tongue of the land 's familiar with thy fame. 
Thy name I might have learn'd to love, though it 
Had ne'er pass'd waking lips. In deepest sleep 
On thee my lord oft calls ; and, with a tongue 
That warns mid commendation, urges thee 
From the chace of desperate steel — But now, more meet 
Soft couch and cheer, than welcoming of lips. 

Corny ne, (Aside.) A wife and son ! these are new 
sounds to me ; 
They choke my proud hopes in life's porch, and fill 
My hand with my keen sword. I hoped to come 
To heir this Xithsdale princedom ; and I brought 
Some chosen spirits from the wars to share 
My fortune, and the fortune of the times. — 
Fair lady, I have urged remembrance far, ( To Lady M.) 
Yet nought so fair or noble can I charm 
As thee from my mute memory. I sail'd, 
Forsaking some proud beauties ; but none fill'd 
Like thee men's bosoms brimful of sweet love, 
c2 



28 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 1. 

Nor charmed the lads who wear gold on their brows, 
To sue with cap in hand. 

Lord Maxwell. She was the pride, 

The grace of Galloway; and she is mine. 
But, gentle cousin, now refresh, repose thee ; 
And I will wooe thy ear to all the woes 
That press now on poor Scotland. {Exeunt.) 



Act 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 29 

ACT II. 

SCENE I. Caerlaverock Castle. 

Halbert Comyne alone. 
Com. 'Tis said there is an hour i' the darkness when 
Man's brain is wondrous fertile,, if nought holy 
Mix with his musings. Now, whilst seeking this, 
I've worn some hours away, yet my brain 's dull, 
As if a thing calTd grace stuck to my heart, 
And sicken' d resolution. Is my soul tamed 
And baby-rid wi' the thought that flood or field 
Can render back, to scare men and the moon, 
The airy shapes of the corses they enwomb ? 
And what if 't tis so ? Shall I lose the crown 
Of my most golden hope, because its circle 
Is haunted by a shadow ? Shall I go wear 
Five summers of fair looks, — sigh shreds of psalms,— 
Pray i' the desart till I fright the fox, — 
Gaze on the cold moon and the cluster 'd stars, 
And quote some old man's saws 'bout' crowns above, — 
Watch with wet eyes at death-beds, dandle the child, 
And cut the elder whistles of him who knocks 
Red earth from clouted shoon. Thus may I buy 
Scant praise from tardy lips ; and when I die, 
Some ancient hind will scratch, to scare the owl, 
A death's head on my grave-stone. If I live so, 
May the spectres dog my heels of those I slew 



30 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

I* the gulph of battle ; wise men cease their faith 
In the sun's rising ; soldiers no more trust 
The truth of temper'd steel. I never loved him. — 
He topt me as a tree that kept the dew 
And balmy south wind from me : fair maids smiled ; 
Glad minstrels sung ; and he went lauded forth, 
Like a thing dropt from the stars. At every step 
Stoop'd hoary heads unbonneted ; white caps 
Hung i' the air; there was clapping of hard palms, 
And shouting of the dames. All this to him 
Was as the dropping honey ; but to me 
'Twas as the bitter gourd. Thus did I hang, 
As his robe's tassel, kissing the dust, and flung 
Behind him for boy's shouts, — for cotman's dogs 
To bay and bark at. Now from a far land, 
From fields of blood, and extreme peril I come, 
Like an eagle to his rock, who finds his nest 
Fill'd with an owlet's young. For he had seen 
One summer's eve a milkmaid with her pail, 
And, 'cause her foot was white, and her green gown 
Was spun by her white hand, he fell in love : 
Then did he sit and pen an amorous ballad ; 
Then did he carve her name in plum-tree bark ; 
And, with a heart e'en soft as new press'd curd, 
Away he walk'd to wooe. He swore he loved her : 
She said, cream curds were sweeter than lord's love : 
He vow'd 'twas pretty wit, and he would wed her: 
She laid her white arm round the fond lord's neck, 
And said his pet sheep ate her cottage kale, 
And they were naughty beasts. And so they talk'd ; 
And then they made their bridal bed i' the grass, 



Sc. 1. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 31 

No witness but the moon. So this must pluck 
Things from my heart I've hugg'd since I could count 
What horns the moon had. There has been with me 
A time of tenderer heart, when soft love hung 
Around this beadsman's neck such a fair string 
Of what the world calls virtues, that I stood 
Even as the wilder' d man who dropped his staff, 
And walk'd the way it fell to. I am now 
More fiery of resolve. This night I've .wiped 
The milk of kindred mercy from my lips; 
I shall be kin to nought but my good blade, 
And that when the blood gilds it that flows between 
Me and my cousin's land. — Who's there ? 

Enter Dougan and Hogan. 

Dougan. 'Tis I, 

Come from the green-wood bough, where I have dug 
A den for stricken deer. 'Tis in a spot 
Where moonshine is a marvel ; and the sun 
May look from the mid heaven, and find it not. 
An owl sat high, and whoop'd : a raven croak'd ; 
A huge black grim one visible on a tree : 
Good Edward's heart beat audible with fear, 
And thrice he swore the hole was deep enough. 

Hogan. I have walk'd forth on the side o' the salt sea; 
The fisher's nets are stretch'd upon the beach, 
Nor is there foot of living thing abroad, 
Nor sound in the wide world. By the sheer cliff 
I've moor'd the boat; three willing strokes of oars 
May launch it far beyond the plummet's depth. 

Com. 'Tis done, like men well skill'd in the good deeds 



32 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2* 

That from their foreheads wipe the world's hot sweat. 

And now, this night, let every look be mirth ; 

Let none cry havoc as he draws the sword, 

But leap up, when I give the signal— thus, — 

With ready swords, and all as mute as shadows. 

When good Lord Walter 's to the greenwood gone, 

And when his dame, and her young ballad maker, 

Have tasted Solway's saltest surge ; we'll raise 

The cry of men at whose throats, when asleep, 

Murder made bare his knife ; and well awake 

The castle with a wild and clamorous outcry ; 

And well paint thick our cheeks with seeming terror; 

Then, all at once, tell of a fearful 'sault 

Made on the tower by arm'd and desperate men. 

Dougan. Well do it, and do it quick as a thunder clap. 
(Exeunt Dougan and Hogan.) 
Comyne. To night a joyous husbandman has call'd 
Lord Maxwell's menials to a merry-making ; 
There, too, goes Marmaduke, and with him goes 
That bonnie maiden whose dark glance has given me 
Something to sigh for. Now will I go look 
Upon their mirth as one who noteth nought, 
And then 111 court my fortunes with my sword. (Exit.) 



SCENE II. Caerlaverock Wood. 

Sir Marmaduke Maxwell. 
Sir M. Ho w sweet is this night's stillness :— soft and bright 
Heaven casts its radiance on the streams, and they 
Lie all asleep and tell the vaulted heaven 



Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 33 

The number of her stars. I see the doves 

Roosting in pairs on the green pine tree tops; 

The distant ocean 'mid the moonlight heaves, 

All cluster'd white with sleeping water fowl. — 

Now where the moon her light spills on yon towers, 

I turn my sight, but not that I may try 

If her chaste circle holds a world more worth 

Man's worshipping than this. See — see — oh see 

Lights at her window! — blessed is the air 

Her blooming cheek that kisses : — looks she forth, 

To see if earth hold aught that's worth her love ? 

O let me steal one look at her sweet face — 

For she doth still turn her dark eyes from me, ; 

And she is silent as yon silver star 

That shows her dwelling place. (Exit.) 



SCENE III. A Farm House. 

Simon Graeme, Mark Macgee, Penpont, 
Hinds, Maidens, and Musicians. 
Gra* Come,bound all to the floor— from the sweet maid 
I' the middle o' her teens, to the staid dame 
Who was young men's delight i' the green year 
Afore mirk-monday. Haste ; leap shoulder high, 
Ye gladsome lads ; here is no standing corn ; 
Nought harder than white fingers for your touch. 
What ! must the maidens wooe ye ? I have seen, 
And that's no old tale, when I've made them spring 
And pant in dancing like the hunted hart, 
c 5 



34 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

Come, screw your pegs, man — make the mole that digs 
Five fathom from your heels, run back in his hole, 
Scared by the gladsome clamour : — now begin. 

Musician. I'll play a tune, a serious one and sweet. 

{Plays.) 

First Hind. Cease, cease thou saintly kittler o' catgut ; 
I'd liefer shake my legs to th' moan o' a storm 
Than to such dolorous music. Faith, I'd make 
Music far sweeter with a wooden bowl, 
And two horn spoons — or may I kiss nae mair 
The lips o' Jenny Jop— here where she stands. 

Sec. Hind. Preserve us ! let him play what tune he likes; 
I'd dance as gaily to the ee babes i' the wood," 
As to <c green sleeves " — so let's have the douce tune ; 
We'll make it soon a wanton ane, I warrant thee. 

Enter Penpont, singing. 
And saw ye aught of my bonnie moorhen ? 
And saw ye aught of my bonnie moorhen ? 
First she flew but, and syne she flew ben, 
Then away to the hills flew my bonnie moorhen. 

Here's steaming punch, and haggis reeking rich ; 
Sound of tight fiddle strings, and smacking, too, 
Of maiden's lips. Now, if their lips in kissing 
Gave crowns and kingdoms, such like dainty sweets 
Are not for Auld Penpont — keep, woeful man, 
Thy grey hairs from temptation. (Sings.) 

For I'm but a silly auld man, 

Gaun hirpling over a tree ; 
And for wooing a lass i' the dark, 

The kirk came haunting me. 



Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 35 

Graeme. Thou'rt welcome as the May-flower — though 
thy locks 
Have a Decemberish look. 

Pe?ipont. How's Simon Graeme 

Of Kittlenaket ?— e'en gaun leaping round 
Amang the dames, and wi' a touch o' the hand 
And word i' the ear making their cheeks the hue 
O' the rose in July. That's a gallant trade,, 
And of old standing. I maun look and sigh — (Sings.) 

Though I be auld and doited now, 
And though my pow be belTd aboon ; 

Yet I hae been upon a day 
The pride of a' the parishen. 

Graeme. Come, cast aside thy bonnet and thy staffs 
And throw to care complaint about grey locks ; 
There's mirth in thee might win a widow's heart : 
Faith, late I saw thee leaping rafter high, 
And calling loud, " Maids look at sixty-eight." 

Pen. Thou'rt one o' the choice spirits o' the earth ; 
Lend me thy nief — thou keepest mirth and humour 
Alive amang us ; — but for Simon Graeme, 
Our converse would be controversy ; — and mirth 
Would have an end. Gude keep the blythe good man 
Of Kittlenaket from the hapless gift 
Of preaching and expounding — and keep too ( To Mark) 
Sic gifts from Mark Macgee : I've seen the day 
Thou wert a sinful smiler, and a singer 
Of sappy sangs, such as make merry maids 
Look through their lily fingers, and cry " fye." 



36 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

Macgee. So thou art laughing yet : could I but catch 
thee 
Singing a psalm tune seriously — 'twere mirth 
Might serve for seven year. 

Penpont. 'Faith, men grow lean 

On prayer alone : I never knew but one 
Who waxd the lustier for't ; Sue Sighaway, 
Of Cummertrees, who pray' d-— See ! Simon, see ! 
Well done, my merry masters — 'faith, ye set 
My frozen blood a moving, and I think {Sings.) 

If a' my duds were off, 

And nought but hale claes on ; 
O, I could wooe a young lass 

As well as a wiser man. 



SCENE IV. Farm House continued. 

Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, and Mary 
Douglas, the latter in a rustic disguise. 

Sir M. My love, thou'rt lovelier in thy russet dress, 
Thy trim busk'd bodice, thy corn braided locks, 
Than in thy garments shower'd with gold and pearl. 
Once every year when this sweet hour comes round, 
ThouTt pluck the diamonds from thy inky locks ; 
Cast off thy robes with riches in their hem 
Might buy a baron's land ; array thee in 
This modest russet, and with him thou lovest 
Thus enter to the dance. 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 37 

Mary Douglas. Now hearken, love ; 

Among the snooded maidens, name me not ; 
Nor 'mongst the white-mutch'd dames. 

Graeme. Now such a sight 

Might render old eyes young, and pluck the crutch 
From cripples. My young lord, thrice blessed be 
Thy gentleness, and blessed too this maid 
Who has so white a hand. Room ! ho, there ! room ! 
And, minstrel, waken thou thy merriest string ; 
Room, there ! room ! This proud night shall be hallowed. 

Sir M. Is this thy wife, kind Simon ? We shall make 
Thy hall roof wag to its remotest raft : 
Thou'rt welcomer than joyous-eyed fifteen. 

Enter Halbert Comyne. 
Com. (Aside.) So this is she who wears the russet gown? 
I know her by the motion of her foot ; 
Those inky ringlets on her ivory neck, 
Moving and shedding with her sugar breath. 
Move not thy hand so; there is magic in't; 
Nor look on me with those dark eyes, lest thou 
Make my heart's rancour kindlier than new milk. 
Lovest thou this cream-curd stripling? hast thou vow'd 
Thy beauties to a ballad-maker's pen ? 
Reap not this green unprofitable ear, 
Leaving the ripe ear to a meaner sickle ; 
Nor pull the green fruit, when the full fair bough 
Stoops down its golden harvest to thy hand. 
( To her) Where grows the corn this snowy hand must 
cut ? 



33 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

The flocks,, where go they which these dark eyes tend ? 
Where stands the shearing thou dost trim at eve, 
And deck with thy rare beauty ? 

Mary Douglas, Simon Graeme, 

Here is a reaper, and a cattle keeper, 
A trimmer too of cottages, a hind 
Skilful in cream and curd : hast thou ripe corn 
Untouched by sickle ? straying herds, which lowe 
Upon the mountain green ? 

First Hind. Lord, Robin ! look ; 

Know'st thou this bonnie maiden ? May I ne'er 
Stride 'tween plow stilts again, or with my foot 
Tread down the fresh-turn'd furrow, if I e'er 
Saw such a pair of een. # 

Second Hind. My certe, lad, 

She's come o' nae skimm'd milk, nae kilted kimmer, 
With a cog o' kitted whey ; she is a pear 
That grows too lofty for thy reach ; her locks, 
Gemm'd in their native gloss, like the bright wing 
Of a Caerlaverock raven, wore, last night, 
More diamonds than the bloom'd broom drops of de TTr . 

First Hind. Dew-drops an' diamonds ! comes she o' 
the blood 
That wore the sinful leaf? then sinful man 
May speak to corrupt woman. 

Sir M. Maxwell. What is this ? 

What crimsons thus thy temple lilies? 

Mary Douglas. Come, 

O come away, for something evil haunts us. (Exeunt.) 

Com. Away, thou rose-lipp'd temptress ! thou hast made 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWEliL. 39 

My steel'd heart softer than the sweet maid's eyes 
When her love leaves her. Thou hast fled from me 
As ring-doves fly when the dark eagle's wings 
Are hung in heaven ; but 1 shall suck thee down, 
As the serpent sucks the song lark when he sings 
Aneath the morning-star. That thou art lovely, 
I have not seldom sworn; that I love thee, 
I have some such suspicion. Cursed fool ! 
Has thy heart grown into white curd, that maids' 
Soft hands can mould it thus ? Aw r ay, aw^ay, 
Thou painted piece of loveliness, aw r ay ! 
I go to win a noble game to-night, 

Where coronets are play'd for. 

Now he who wears the bauble which I covet, 

Wears too my mother's image ; and the blood 

That reddens in his veins and mine is mix'd 

Past my sword's separation. These are times 

When kindred blood is like cold water. Men 

Ask God to guide their weapons, ere they bore 

The breasts that warm'd them. With a few smooth 

words 
O' the saints they soothe their consciences, and let 
Their swords be bound or loosen'd by the tongue 
Of some shrewd sly enthusiast ; one w r ho makes 
The w r ords of men slay far more bodies, than 
The Scripture saves of souls. I do not league 
With men who use my strength and sword, and wear 
The glories which I toil'd for ; who give me 
The bloody ambush, and the dubious field, 



40 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

And keep themselves power, gold, and pastures green : 
I'll share with none my doom or my redemption. (Exit.) 

Mac. Now, Simon Graeme, I'll put my bonnet on ; 
My heart is sadly out of sorts ; I'll home, 
While the young maids are laughing. 

Graeme. Mark Macgee^ 

Thou hast a look that stays entreaty's tongue, 
Else I should tempt thee with some rare device 
O' rustic wit. We lack not here a hind, 
W*ho wraps a soul of humour in a grave 
And curious aspect. Soon shall he come in, 
Palsied with seeming age ; his hoar locks hung 
Thin on his temples; crooked will he seem, 
And tottering on a crutch. Straight will he look, 
As some fiend chased him ; and he'll sorely wail 
The wilfulness of flesh. The kirk's rebuke, 
Will be his theme ; and he will sing, or say, 
How the preacher rail'd against hot blood, and he 
Promised amendment in such merry sort, 
That the incensed and ancient dames leap'd up 
And shower'd their psalm-books at him. Yet thou'lt go ? 
Then I'll take brand and bonnet straight, and see thee 
Safe through Caerlaverock wood. (Exeunt.) 

Pen. Now rise, my youngmen : faith, we're blythely rid 
O' these wise saws and reliques of morality ; 
They rode like the night-mare on the neck of mirth. 
Come, make thy thairms cheep merrier, man, and merrier: 
What look'st thou sour for, man? thou 'gnarled staff 
O' Cameronian crab-tree ; thou betrayer 



Sc 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 41 

O' the godly psalm tune to the graceless legs 
O' the wag and wanton. Thou makest the tup-thairm 
Moan as if 't lay aneath the knife, and bringest 
Sounds from the tombs, and dread of rotten bones : 
I'd rather hear a peel'd skull preaching with 
A shank- bone 'tween its teeth. Thy bread-winner 
Sheds tears, positive tears, and wails like wind 
'Mongst gibbeted bones. Now give him elbow-room, 
My rosie quean, or me a kiss. Here, man, 
Taste thou this tass o' sinful spirit ; 'twill put 
A living tongue atween a deadman's lips. 
Come, turn the bottom of the cup to the moon, 
Astride 'twill set thee on her highest horn. 
It simmers 'mang the dry dust o' thy throat : 
Thou drinkest most devoutly. Up, maids, up ! 
Here is a fiddler with inspired strings. 
Musician. What tune wilt have ? Shall I play, " Kiss 
me fast, 
My mother's coming;" or, u Sweet Nelly Wemyss ;" 
Or, ce Oh to be married, if this be the way ? " 
I'll make my tight strings speak o' thy old tricks, 
As plain as Mess John did i' the Session book. 



SCENE V. Caerlaverock Wood. 

Simon Graeme and Mark Macgee. 
Gra. Put hot haste from thy footsteps ; there's no lack 
Of my stiff joints upon my hall floor. Hark ! 
The abounding din of merry feet, the loud 



42 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

And rising note o' the fiddle ! Let us have 
An hour of moon-light converse, and our path 
Shall be where few frequent. 

Macgee. Let's have grave talk ; 

'Tis night's sedatest hour, even drowsy twelve. 
Forsake this footpath for the soft greensward : 
I love the greenwood better than the road 
Where knights show golden spurs. 

Graeme. We'll seek the grove, 

Where cushats love to breed in summer time ; 
The way is sweet as that to a maid's window. 

Mac. Is this grave talk ? Is this the hour of joy — 
Hast thou forgot, man, 'twas e'en in this grove, 
Some twenty years since, — by the heart o' corn, 
One o' the Galloway gods, I doubt its nearer 
The edge of twenty-five 

Graeme. Say twenty-eight ; 

And add some two to that : dates need not stay 
The telling of a tale. 

Macgee. 'Twas in this grove, 

No matter in what year ; 'twas summer time, 
When leaves were green, and honeysuckles hung, 
Dropping their honey dew : with a sweet one, 
With locks of gold, and eyes of beaming blue, 
Thou satest aneath a bush ; this self-same thorn ; 
I know it by its shape and stately stem ; 
But it doth lack those fragrant tassels now, 
That canopy of blossom, which hung o'er, 
E'lamour'd of her beauty. 

Graeme. 'Tis the bush. 



Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 43 

I have a reverence for thy meanest twig, 
Thou fairest bush o' the forest. 

Macgee. As thou satest 

With her o' thy heart aside thee, there came one, 
Booted and spurr'd, and spiced and perfumed o'er, 
One might have smelt him o'er five miles of fen ; 
And by his left side sat a pretty sword, 
And on his gentle hand there was a glove ; 
And he did pray thy fair one, for the sake 
Of ancient blood and gentle kin, to leave 
The rough rude rustics to their snooded dames. 
How thou didst fume ! and with a slender wand, 
Of two years' growth, didst chase him, sword and all, 
Even till he pray'd and panted. 

Graeme. What is this ? 

Mercy in heaven ! a new-made grave gapes wide 
Unto the stars, and from some murderer's hand 
Craves for its morsel. 

Macgee. A deep grave, new dug ! 

Dread God, but this is strange ! The earth 's fresh 

turn'd, 
And here are footsteps large. 

Graeme. My friend, my friend, 

This is hell's right-hand labour. Draw thy sword, 
For God has sent us here. 

Macgee. Staunch by thy side, 
Even as I've done through life I'll do ; as one 

Gra. Soft ! soft ! I hearken coming footsteps ; see, 
A faint light glimmering underneath the boughs ! 
Come, let us stand beneath this holly. Some 



44 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

Shall find a corner in that grave themselves, 
Who seek to fill it without leave of me. 

(Exeunt under the holly-tree.) 



SCENE VI. Caerlaverock Wood. 

Enter Hubert Dougan and Neal; the latter bear* 
ing the murdered body of Lord Maxwell, the former 
with a lantern. 

Neal. Hist ! hear'st thou nought ? or was't the dead* 
man's hand 
That shook the hazel bough ? 'Tis a dreary place. 

Yestreen I saw the new moon (Channts.) 

WV the dead moon in her arm. 
O for one drop of most unrighteous brandy ! 
I'm all as cold 's as corse. 

Dougan. I wish thou wert one. 

Can'st thou not rather sigh some scrap of prayer ? 
Thou'lt waken all the ravens. Some sad hind, 
Whose lass a pedlar from his arms seduced 
With a remnant of red ribbon, here perchance 
Talks to the owl. 

Neal. Prayer ! I can mind no prayer, 

Not even a shred, though I were doom'd for lack 
To slumber with my back-load. — Curse thy haste ; 
I've spilt a mouthful of the rarest spirit 
E'er charm'd the toothache. 

One night our captain he did dream (Channts.) 

There came a voice, which said, to him, 
Prepare you and your companie ; 
To-morrow night you must lodge with me, 



Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 45 

Dougan. The den we dug for thy sweet back-load is 
Grown solid ground again. I thought 'twas here, 
Under this blasted pine. Come, soft, man, soft ! 
Confound these honeysuckle twigs, they hang 
Their tendrils in one's teeth. 

Neal. One moon-light night as I sat high, (Chaunts.) 

I look'd for one, hut two came by ; 
The tree did tremble, and I did quake 
To see the hole these two did make. 

He's living, Hubert, he's living ! his right hand 
Has given me a staggerer i' th' teeth. Curse on 
Hab Comyne's fears ; we might have denn'd him deep 
I' the marble floor, beyond a sleuth hound's scent, 
Or cast him in the deep and silent sea. 

Macgee, (Aside.) These are two fiends who haunt 
the saintly steps 
Of covenanting Comyne. They work his will 
When he but moves his finger. 

Graeme. They've brought work 

Of murder's shaping : stay, let us list all, 
And eke their broken utterings together ; 
And run the track of murder's foot till 't reach 
The threshold o' the plotter. 

Neal. Hubert, I hear 

Men's tongues — nay, stay, 'tis but a mouse i' the grass; 
And yet mine ear shaped it like human speech. 

Dougan. And what o' that ? a mouse may chirp like 
a man; 
A dead lord's hand lives when the green bough waves it. 
Fear is a bogglish follower. Here's the grave ; 



4G SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

Measure it, lord ; feel if it's cut to fit thee. 
Hab Comyne swore thou wert but a sad lord, 
And a most sorry beadsman. From his hands 
Thou hadst a passage to heaven, bloody and brief. 
And yet thou braved us nobly. When thou saw 
The rude steel near thee, I see yet thine eye 
Lighten as thou smote the foremost. Oh thy look, 
As thy shrieking lady saw thee ; it might make 
The stars burn down from heaven, and the clear 

moon 
Descend from the sky, that men might see to hunt 
Us to destruction. 

NeaL Thou wilt preach about it, 

Uttering fine words and sayings, sugar smooth, 
Till the wild birds will learn to sing the tale ; 
The stupid owl to whoop it in day-light; 
And the chased hart will couch upon the grave, 
That men may find out murder. 

Dougan. Coward priest, 

Why didst thou leave the pulpit ? Thou didst drown 
Thy fears in foaming flagons ; didst awake 
With lewd song and wild riot the bright sun 
That rose, nor shamed thee ; thou didst find thy love 
Among the dames whom even seafaring men 
Shunn'd like the whirlpool ; and thou didst blaspheme 
Till profanity grew sick. Fly from my sight, 
Nor stay where brave men are. To thee I speak not; 
But with my heart I commune, where I find 
What sickens contemplation : curdling blood 
Will smell i' the nose of justice, smother' d 'neath 



Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUIvE MAXWELL. 47 

All the Siberian snow. To mine eyes come, 
From the earth's centre, arm'd and fiery shapes; 
Cherubim's blades are bared. Beneath my feet 
The grass seems growing daggers. No more now 
I'll look that way — no more. 

Graeme. Look this way then, 

Damn'd murderer ; 'tis the last time thou wilt look 
An honest man i' the face. 

Dougan. What devil art thou ? 

If thou'rt not framed of sterner stuff than man, 
Thou'lt howl beneath this steel. {Draws his sword.) 

Graeme. Now, Hubert Dougan, 

Stand from that noble corse : I will not mix 
The holy blood that dyes his garments through 
And stains the grass, with the rank gore that makes 
The fires of hell so grim. So thus I greet thee. (Fight.) 

Macgee. I know thee well ; and all who see thy face 
Shrink back, and say, a villain. Curse the sea 
That spared thee for such havoc ! Now go howl 
I' the fiery vault. Thy gentle master soon 
Shall wail and quaff the liquid fire with thee. 

(Fight; Neal falls.) 

Graeme. Thy look is noble. I war not on souls. 
Wilt thou not yield thee ? Then say one brief prayer, 
Or have at thy heart, for sin has sore subdued thee. 

Doug. I yield not till steel makes me ; prayer, to me, 
More terrible is than thou. My life has been 
Spent in war's stormy surge, and peace and prayer 
Are matters of strange name : come, do thy best. 

(Fight; Hubert falls.) 



48 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

My curse now, Halbert Comyne, on thy name ! 
O ! I shall meet and beard thee, in the den 
We're doom'd to dwell in, and our strife shall be 
Eternal as our torments. {Dies.) 

Graeme. Mark Macgee, 

Now may this night o' the year be mark'd and cursed 
With earth and ocean storm ; be the sick air 
Thick of blue plague ; the dew be curdled blood ; 
May cities quake, and the foundation stones 
Of holy temples shake like leaves on waters ; 
May unbless'd bones of murderers walk the earth ; 
The fiery shapes of those too hot i' the pit, 
Troop to and fro, visible to men's eyes. 
Here is a proud star cast from the high heaven, 
And no lights left behind. {Looking on Lord Maxwell.) 

Macgee. As a fair tree, 

There liest thou, smote and stricken in the bud. 
Thou wert to me the star to the mariner, 
The soft sweet rind unto the tender tree. 
We've dyed our lips with wild berries together. 
Thou satest a worship'd thing i' the world ; and thou 
Didst wind all hearts about thee. May he rot 
Till he infect the moon, he who has laid 
Thy blessed head so low ! 

Graeme. My friend, leal friend, 

Heaven has some fearful purpose in all this; 
So let us not our swords draw rash, and shout, 
Ho ! Comyne, thou 'rt a murderer ; thou hast slain 
Thy cousin, and his wife, and gentle son, 
Usurping their inheritance ; and thou 



Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 49 

Unworthy art to live. God has his time,, 
Even as the seasons have ; and some dread sign 
Seen by all men, and read by us alone — 
Some sign on earth, dread,, fearful, manifest — 
Shall surely warn us,, when that his revenge 
Is ripe for innocent blood. So sheath thy sword, 
And wear not thou thy purpose on thy brow. — 
Now let us lay mute earth to earth, and go 
In silence home, — stir with the lark, and seek 
The castle-gate, and hear what ears may hear. 

(They bury the bodies, and exeunt?) 



50 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

ACT III. 

SCENE I. A Cavern on the Galloway Coast. 

Mabel Mo ran., and Outlawed Royalists. 
Mabel. Hast thou look'd seaward? hast thou land- 
ward looked ? 
And look'd to heaven ? then say what thou hast seen. 

First Roy. There is a strange commotion on the earth, 
And trouble on the waters ; heaven's whole stars 
Stream seven-fold bright ; a ruddy red one dropt 
Down on Caerlaverock castle ; lo ! it changed 
From its bright starry shape to a flaming shroud : 
I heard a loud sob, and a funeral wail — 
Flights of blood-ravens darken' d all the pines, 
And clapt their wings, and seem'd to smell out prey : 
I read the hour upon the chapel clock, 
And 1 dared look no longer. 

Mabel. Thou hast done 

Wisely and well. Now, William Seaton, say 
Didst thou sit on Barnhourie cliff, and watch 
Sea- shore and heaven ? then say what didst thou note. 

Second Roy. A fearful cry came from the flood, a cry, 
Between Caerlaverock and Barnhourie rock, 
Of an unearthly utterance ; every wave — 
And they roll'd in heaped multitudes and vast — 
Seem'd summited with fire. Along the beach 



8c 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 51 

There ran a rushing wind ; and with the wind 
There came a voice more shrill than human tongue, 
Crying " Woe ! woe!" 

Mabel. I thank thee, thou bright heaven : 

The green ear's spared yet, — but the ripe is cut, 
And by a villain's sickle. Brief's thy time, 
Thou ruthless spiller of thy kinsman's blood : 
A hand shall rise against thee, and a sword 
Shall smite thee mid thy glory. For the sun 
Shall walk but once from Burnswark's bonnie top 
To lonely CrirTel, till we hear a sound 
Of one smote down in battle. Now, my friends, 
There is a bright day coming for poor Scotland : 
'T will brighten first in Nithsdale, at the hour 
Foretold by our prophetic martyr, when 
The slayers' swords were on him. Now be men : 
Gird to your sides your swords ; rush to the flood ; 
To the good work of redemption. (Exeunt.) 



SCENE II. Coast of Galloway. 

Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, Lady Maxwell, 
and Outlawed Royalists. 
Sir M. Kind, gallant strangers, thanks ; you were 
our friends 
In a most perilous moment. 

First Royalist. Thy best friends 

Were God and thy good sword, for thou madest us 
But idle lookers on. 

D 2 



52 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

Second Royalist. I tell thee, youth, 
I have seen gallant knights unhorsed, and I 
Have crack'd my spear upon a prince's mail: 
And I've seen tried men start when the foe's sword 
Came like a thing loved blood. But by St. Andrew 
Thou'rt made of peerless stuff. I ne'er saw one 
That leap'd so dauntless in the fearful gap 
Which gapes 'tween life and death. Thou'rt forged for war, 
For thou art fashion'd of a thunder-bolt, 
And thy sword's living fire. What's thy name ? 

Sir M. He that has nothing in this wide bad world. 
No roof to put his desolate head aneath, 
No sheltering place from the pursuer's sword, 
Nothing he loves he evermore shall see, 
Nothing but his weak sword and hapless self, 
Has no use for a name. 

First Royalist. By Charles's blood, 

(Dost thou start youth !) Hove thee for that speech; 
And I will seek a noble name for thee. 
These seven long summers have I lived in strife : 
At times arrn'd, watching on the mountain tops; 
Sometimes asleep in caverns, with mail'd brow, 
And bared blade in my hand ; and oftentimes, 
Even glad of such diversity, I've rode 
Where steeds were rushing on the splintering spers, 
And lofty crests were stooping, gaining gashes 
O'er which bright eyes have wept. But only one 
Of all men I have led to fight or follow'd- — 
But only one seem'd born to be obey'd ; 
But one alone could like a god mould hearts 



Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 53 

In valour's heavenly warmth. Thou art his son ; 
Welcome, Sir Marmaduke Maxwell. 

Sir Marmaduke. Noble sir, 

If thy right hand hold charity with wretchedness ; 
If thou dost reverence noble birth,, or lend'st 
Thy hand to the oppressed one, and turn'st 
Thy sword on the oppressor ; O ! if thou 
Hast ever knelt to beauty, e'er gazed back, 
As thou didst spur thy courser on the spears, 
To the land where dwelt thy loved one, pity us : 
For I have lost a noble father, and lost 
Him by a villain's hand. 

Second Royalist. What ! Halbert Comyne's ? 
I know him well; we've breasted steeds together 
On a field far from this : and well I know him 
For one as brave as ever spurr'd to battle ; 
And I know too I would not choose to wear 
The head he dream'd to cleave 

First Royalist. There are some fearful tidings in the 
wind ; 
There are hot coursers spurring to and fro ; 
Musters of armed men ; and summon'd chiefs 
Begin to wear blank looks. I tell ye, friends, 
I dream'd yestreen that crafty Cromwell lay 
Even in the death-pang : see now, here comes one, 
To tie my faith to dreams. 

Enter Page. 
Page. Sir William Seaton ! 

My Lord Protector 's gone upon a journey, 
Where, the elect know not. 



54 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

Third Royalid. Northward belike, 

For here sits Monck as crafty as a spider 
F the middle of his mesh. 

Page. Some hotter clime 

Tis thought he seeks ; he has had cold fits of late. 

First Roy. Come, cease thy riddling; heis dead; I knew 
This gladsome tale some hours since : I know too 
Our monarch's navy, thick with shining helms, 
Will soon stand for the coast. Come, draw your swords, 
Soldiers of good King Charles, and shout and kneel, 
And let us vow a vow. 

Second Royalist. Aye, let us vow 

To strike Caerlaverock cope-stone to the moat, 
And in its place set Halbert Comyne's head. 

First Royalist. We must our steps choose warily. 
Halbert Comyne 
Appears commission'd to blunt his sharp sword 
On the bosom bones of loyal men who love 
The ancient line of their anointed kings. 
Now, gentle lady, deep in yon green wood 
Stands the lone shearing of a dame far famed 
For cunning skill by shepherds. This shrewd page 
Shall guide thy footsteps at the day-dawn, lady ; 
She is a dame,, tender, and tried, and true. 

Sir M. We know this sage dame ; she's as true as light 
Unto the morning. Honour 'd lady-mother, 
An angel has forsook our house, and now 
The fiend inhabits there. 

Lady Maxwell. My son, my son, 

When tear-drops fall from heroes, we may look 
For women's eyes to weep. Bury thy grief 



Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 55 

Deep in thy bosom, and let maiden's cheeks 

Wear tears, not thine. Now mark and mind my words : 

The way of glory narrow is, and straight ; 

That of ambition, short, and bright, and broad : 

Touch glory, and thy hands shall seem as snow 

Ere it hath reach'd the earth. Whoso doth touch 

Ambition's finger, yea, or kiss the hem 

Of her far-flowing robe, shall smell of blood 

As far as from the green earth to the moon. 

Thou art the last of an illustrious line ; 

And there is spilt blood on thy father's floor. — 

{Exit Lady Maxwell.) 
Sir M. Yes, there is spilt blood on my castle floor, 
Blood dearer far than flows in my sad heart, 
Dearer than aught that *s dear to me gh earth : 
The avengement of that blood shall be a tale 
While CrifFel keeps its stance, while gentle Nith 
Flows at its foot. Old men shall hold their hands 
Toward Caerlaverock castle, and relate 
To their grandchildren how it came to pass. 



SCENE III. Caerlaverock Hall 

Halbert Comyne. 
Comyne. Fresh smells the air of morning ; and I see 
Red in the eastern heaven. 'Tis some hours now 
Since I have wash'd my hands, yet none return 
From the good greenwood and the deep wide sea, 
To greet me with good tidings. Hubert ! Hubert ! 



56 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 2. 

Thou that dost errands swift as thunder doth, 

Why lingerest thou ? What ! has the green ground gaped 

And swallow'd them up too ? Even the yare sea, 

That ne'er refused the bloodiest offering, keeps 

Present and giver both. O ! this doth mix 

Perdition in my sugar'd cup. Now, now 

I hear the sound of coming feet— no, no; 

Cursed wind, this is thy mockery ; mayest thou 

Ne'er slumber 'mongst the odorous violets more, 

But sleep on rotten fens. Now I must wear 

The aspect of amazement and strange horror: 

Terror must seem to sway my tongue, and straight 

Must fearful words escape it. I must call 

With the voice of one who sees some fearful shape, 

To which creeds give no credence. Tut — no more; 

I shall wear looks that might seduce the stars 

To shoot down for mere pity. — Ho ! awake ! 

Awaken ! rise ! or sleep till the sharp steel 

In murderers' hands invade you. Will you sleep 

Till the blood of slaughter'd bodies flood your couches ? 

Awake ! or drowse till doomsday. Haste, oh haste ! 

Ring the alarm bell ! let the trumpet sound 

Till it shakes down the cedars ! 

Enter Servants. 

First Servant, What, oh what, 

Means this most fearful summons ? 

Comyne. Thou blank fool, 

Thou slumbering coward, may perdition seize 
Those that can slumber now! Yet thou couldst sleep 



8c. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 57 

At the loud thunder's elbow ! Haste, now haste ! 
Warn all the warlike vassals of thy lord ! 
Saddle the fleetest steeds ! Dost tarry still ? 

Sec. S. What, in the name o' the eagle and the rood, 
Calls for this sudden summons ? 

Comyne. Thou sleepest yet, 

Thou creature made up in a hasty moment ; 
Now, by the blood of thy good lord that reeks 
Yet on the sword that shed it, ITl make thee 
The ravens' meat. 

Enter Women. 

First Woman. Now what means a' this din ? 

Com. My bonnie maid, thine eyes are sparkling yet 
With dreaming of caresses. My old dame, 
Bind up thy gray locks, and go to thy prayers : 
' Hast thou been revelling late ? Can sixty years 
Be tempted like sixteen ? — Foh ! 

Second Woman. Me, sir ! me, sir ! 

A king on a throne — a preacher o' the word — 
Nay, even the laird of Collistown himself, 
Laird of three miles o' moorland, shouldnae tempt 
A dame sedate as me : my certe ! tempted ? 

Comyne. Not armed yet, you tardy rustics I Arm ! 
Mount ! spur ! the spoiler has fallen upon your house, 
And I alone am left : come, mount and follow. 

Second Servant. I'm arm'd; and, Halbert Comyne, 
swift as thine 
My steed shall fly ; as sharp shall smite my sword ; 
So let us hasten : — who has done this deed ? 
d 5 



58 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

Where is my lord, and my thrice honour' d lady, 
And young Sir Marmaduke ? 

Comyne. All dead and gone ! 

'Twas at the morn's third hour — Be those slaves arm'd? 
I heard a shriek ; and, ere I rose, a groan 
Came from a dying man. — I snatch' d my sword, 
Flew down the stair, and, lo ! the hall was full 
Of armed men, and they had slain thy lord, 
Ta'en captive his fair lady and her son. 

Second Servant, Oh, words of woe ! who can have 
done this deed ? 

Comyne. They were all men of evil mien, all arm'd 
With brand and dagger, and, in desperate deeds, 
Skilful they seem'd ; and they were closely swathed 
In dark gray mantles ; o'er their brows were puli'd 
Their plumed bonnets, while to the full moon 
They held their brands, and mutter'd chosen scraps 
Of Scripture threatenings, and to bloody meaning 
Did turn each spotless word. (Exeunt) 



SCENE IV. Cumlongam Castle. Morning. 

Mary Douglas and May Morison. 
Mary Douglas. Come hither, maiden; — dost thou 
know a tree, 
A high green tree, upon whose leafy top 
The birds do build in spring ? This tree doth grow 
By the clear fountain, on whose virgin breast 
The water lily lies. There the pale youth, 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 59 

Sick in his summer beauty, stoops and drinks : 
Grave matrons say, the waters have strange virtues, 
Which this green tree drinks through his veins, and wide 
To the joyous air he spreads his balsam' d bough. 
Thou know'st it not. 

May Morison. Lady, I know it rarely ; 

Far up the straight stem of this lovely tree 
The honeysuckle climbs, and from its boughs 
Flings down its clusters, till the blossoms wreathe 
The passers' foreheads. ? Tis the self-same tree 
True lovers swear by. I have three of its leaves 
Sew'd i ; the hem o' my kirtle. 'Neath its bough 
Thou leftist thy snood, to greet Lord Walter Maxwell, 
When his fair son ofT-cap'd thee like a goddess. 

Mary Douglas, Cease, cease, thou know ; st it ; now 
be swift, and haste 
Unto this tree. Fly like a bird that leaves 
No stamp of its wing upon the yielding air ; 
Its centre stem shoots as 't would say, Ye stars, 
I'll stop when Fm among you. — See if this 
Be shorn in twain by fire ; and if two names, 
Carved curious i 7 the bark, are razed out 
By the lightning's fiery bolt. 

May Morison. Lady, I'll go, 

And come as the Scripture-dove did, when she bore 
Tidings of happy sort. {Exit.) 

Mary Douglas. Can there be truth 

In the dreams of night? To the airy semblances 
Of possible things can I glew on belief 
Firm as my creed ? for the night visions oft 



60 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

Take their complexion from our troubled thoughts; 

And yet wise ones have said, to favoured men 

The future woes are vision'd forth and shaped 

By heavenly hand and gentle. Thus sad things 

Come softly on the mind, as the dove's down 

Drops on the tender grass. Though my mind 's not 

Hoodwinked with rustic marvels, I do think 

There are more things i ? the grove, the air, the flood, 

Yea, and the charnePd earth, than what wise man, 

Who walks so proud as if his form alone 

Fili'd the wide temple of the universe^ 

Will let a frail maid say. I'd write i' the creed 

Of the hoariest man alive, that fearful forms, 

Holy or reprobate, do page men's heels; 

That shapes too horrid for our gaze stand o'er 

The murder'd dust, and for revenge glare up, 

Until the stars weep fire for very pity. 

If it be so, then this sad dream, that shook 

My limbs last night, and made my tresses creep 

As crested adders, is a warning tongue, 

Whose words deep woes will follow. 

Re-enter May Morison. 

May Morison. Hearken, lady : 

On the tree top two cushat doves are cooing ; 
At its green foot two wanton hares are sporting ; 
A swarm of brown bees cluster on its stem, 
And loud 's their swarming song. No leaf is touch'd. 
The tree looks green and lovely. 

Mary ^Douglas. Thou deservest 



Sc.4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL." 61 

A silken snood for this. Now tell me, maiden, 
Hast thou e'er dream'd sweet dreams that came to pass, 
And hast thou faith in them, as in the vows 
Which youths of seventeen breathe ? 

May Morison. Dreams! I have dream'd 

Such things would win a gentle lady's ear, 
Wrought in a tender ballad. Faith in them 
I venture little. For of empty shrouds, 
And coffins too, I've dream'd, and graves that gaped 
For the neat length of my little body, lady. 

Mary Douglas. But hast thou ne'er dream'd that at 
evening, which 
The morrow's sun reveal'd before it set ? 

May Morison. Since I was sixteen, I have dream'd 
such dreams, 
'T would take no slender wisdom to expound them. 
I've dream'd of gentle kisses — kisses ne'er 
Have touch'd my lips, except perchance i' the dark, 
A twilight smack or two ; but these none saw, 
And are not worth the counting. I've dream'd too, 
Of trooping 'midst bride-favours, to the sound 
Of dulcimer and flute ; on my head, too, 
I've dream'd -the bride's hose fell ; yet, I am here,, 
As single as a neighbourless stocking. None 
Ask the kind question which all maidens long for. 
MaryD. I ask for dreams, andthougivest me a history. 
May Morison. The best o' my dreams is coming. Late 
last night, 
I dream'd I met with the dear lad o' my heart 
By a green bank, where the rich violets blush'd, 



(12 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

Expecting to be press'd. I 'woke with joy ; then fell 
In pleasant sleep again, and straight I dream'd 
I heard my name call'd i' the kirk, and loud 
Rose the crowds' shouting, as I swept along 
Beside my gallant bridegroom. I had on 
Your gown of satin, with the golden flounce, 
The bonnet, too, you promised me, all deck'd 
With pearls, at least ; and proud I look'd; and so 
The bridal bed was made, and I was laid 
Atween the lily sheets. 

Mary Douglas. „ Come, come, no more — 

The gown I'll give thee, and the bonnet too, 
Sown all with Sol way pearl. To these I'll add, 
When this dream proves no mockery, snowy sheets, 
As white as those which visited thy sleep. 
Lo ! who come here ? men who have urged their way 
Through flood and forest; at their bosoms hang 
Leaves, rent from boughs in passing. Simon Graeme, 
Why all this show of steel? — Haste, fearful haste, 
Seems in thy steps, and sad news on thy tongue. 

Enter Halbert Comyne, Simon Graeme, Mark 
Macgee, Servants and Shepherds. 

Graeme. News, gentle lady ! news of that sad sort, 
To turn thy cheek-rose pale, and make the tears 
Course down the snow o' thy bosom. 

Mary Douglas. Tell, oh, tell me ! 

Graeme. Ask Halbert Comyne, beauteous lady ; he 
Can picture forth this tragedy in words 
That may make murder look less hideous, and 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 63 

Blanch it like boulted snow. For he is versed 
In those soft soothing words, that take the taint 
From deeds that smell to the moon. 

Comyne. Peace, peasant, pe ace 

Weep, gentle lady, there is done a deed 
That renders day-light hideous ; makes the mother 
Her baby dash i' the dust, lest its soft hand 
Should fumble with a dagger ; that doth call 
From the creation's centre to high heaven, 
With a voice more audible than thunder. Our castle 
Is sack'd. Our good lord, and fair lady, with 
Their only son, and all that could bear brand, — 
Yea, even my men, whose nerves were nerves of 

steel, 
Are swept from 'neath the sky, and I alone, — 
Though I sought death, and with my broad sword bared 
Followed them to the wood, and strove to smite 
Some of the boldest, — I alone am left 
To tell the tale and weep. {Mary Douglas faints.) 

Macgee. Life's roses fade ; 

And see, the lily o' death grows i' the place. — 
Water ! bring me water . 

Graeme. Low thou liest, 

My beauteous fair one; my keen plowshare ne'er 
Shared violet half so lovely. Take these drops, 
Pure from the spring, they are not half so pure 
As thy most lovely self. 

Macgee. The rose, whose lips 

The dew hath never tasted — the chaste lily 
That hid its bashful bosom from the sun, 



64 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

But look'd sedate unto the modest star, 
Seem'd ne'er to me so beautiful and spotless. 

Graeme. Now all hear this — if this sweet lady dies, 
Then 1 wait not for sign of heaven, or word, 
To draw the sword of vengeance. My right hand 
Shall swiftly smite and sure. Oh ! gaze again ; 
Thou piece of chaste perfection, gaze again. 

Comyne. Peace, varlet, peace ! Deem'st thou this 
lady is 
Some slippery dame, whose tardy sense swift cups 
Have newly overtaken ? 

Graeme. Halbert Comyne ; 

An hour of sin— an age of deep repentance — 
If such be heaven's will; but make not now, 
From this maid's sorrow, matter for thy mirth. 

Mary Douglas. Where is my love, that I may stretch 
myself 
By him, and call for swords of cherubim ? 
Oh ! is he slain, or lost in the wild sea, 
The ruthless sea, where shrieking pity's tongue 
May reach not? Stand ye there— and are ye men, 
And nursed at women's breasts, while my true love 
Is torn away by traitors ? There's a time — 
So lay it to your hearts, and think of it — 
When for each hair torn from his precious locks, 
For every drop shed from his bleeding body, 
For every sigh he utter'd — for each pang 
That he endured, and for each tear shed for him 
By maids' or matrons' eyes, a strict account 
Will be demanded. But I speak to men 



Se. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 65 

With eyes of marble, and with hearts of flint. 

Comyne. Of whom speak'st thou., my fair one? In 
the strife 
I saw Lord Maxwell's life-blood on the floor : 
His son smote sore and carried swift away; 
Bound with his weeping mother. They are now 
Beyond the sight of mercy's weeping eyes. 

Graeme. O'er this dread night a woeful mystery hangs, 
Which God will take away. For we have sought them 
By the wide fathomless sea — by the green wood 
Upon the sea sand, and the lily lea ; 
Nor step, nor trace of man may we espy : 
O'er this dread night an awful mystery hangs, 
Which God will in his own time take away. 

Comyne. Farewell ! fair lady; may I hope a time, 
When for my kinsmen I've sung dool — and ta'en 
Some of their state on mine unworthy shoulders — 
To kneel and offer my poor service to thee ; 
For tears will dry up like last morning's dew, 
And grief itself grow gentler; and the sobs, 
Which give such awful grace to beauty's woe, 
Will stop no more the current of free speech. 

Mary Douglas. Oh ! Halbert Comyne — tarry, Halbert 
Comyne ; 
Now let mine arms come never from thy neck : 
Turn me, turn him, into the desolate world. 
Take, lord, the rich earth from the east to west, 
And own all that the sun doth look upon; 
Take tower and turret, and the sodded sheal; 
Take all mine unsumm'd treasures — all that kings 
Have given in honour of the Douglas name; 



GG SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

And we shall sojourn in the uttermost earth, 
And never think of thee, save when we pray 
For thine increase of glory. Halbert Comyne, 
Give my true love to me. 

Corny ne. Thy speech errs much, 

Thou gentle one. I do forgive thee, lady : 
Thy brain is rapt and wandering, and thou drearn'st 
Of foes in firmest friends. 

Graeme. (Aside.) My sword be swift : 

For I shall sure hear thunder. God's fierce wrath 
Might find an object here. In heaven above, 
In earth beneath — the spacious air — the sea, 
God gives my sword no signal. Shall I cease 
My faith in the signed promise — things reveal'd ; 
And smite thee as a heathen smites, nor wait 
For fire to aid my vengeance ? 

Com. Let's home from vain pursuit. Whoever found 
The mark of the eagle's wing on the soft air 
He soared through, when he left the ravish' d dam 
Running on the hill-top bleating ? Lady, adieu ! 
Now let your steeds taste the sharp whip and rowel, 
Till the flinty roads yield fire. Tardy rustic ! 
By heaven, the boor wears disobedient looks. 

Graeme. I am a plain blunt man, good sir, and lack 
Those honey'd words which make the sour taste sweet : 
I love not sleeping in the dark, where dirks 
Forget to keep their sheaths ; or where the feet 
Of the murderer wear strong wings, which waft him o'er 
Moat and portcullis. I'm too small a bird 
To peck with the gore-hawk. 

Macg-ee. Can a man sleep safe 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. C7 

When the very air drops daggers ? or close his lids 
Beneath a roof doom'd to prove heaven's hot fire 
Is an avenger yet ? 

Comyne. Rude churls,, remain. 

I lack not such thick-blooded spirits as you : 
Yet lay my words to heart. Do not be found 
Shedding tongue-venom in our peasants 7 ears ; 
Else yon grim raven, which now croaking flies 
From us toward Caerlaverock, he shall share 
Your quarters with the hounds. (Exit,) 

Graeme. Go ! Halbert Comyne I 

Lord of the gentle deed., and gentle look ; 
Thou hatest blood as yon black raven doth 
Now croaking after thee. 

Mary Douglas. (To Graeme.) Farewell! farewell! 
I thank you for your pity : you have wound 
Around my heart. I fain would call you friend : 
For there be few friends in this ruthless world. (Exit.) 

Shepherd. 'Tis pitiful we've lost our own good lord. 
But Halbert Comyne has the looks win hearts : 
And he is gentle as the sleeping sea, 
Meek as a May- morn 'fore the lark is up ; 
He'll make a right good master. How do sheep 
Sell in Lochmaben market ? does the black 
And brocket breed excel the silk-fleeced brood 
Of the auld stock o' Tinwald? 

Graeme. The auld stock 

Of Tinwald-top for me. But, Halbert Comyne — 
Why he's a thing worth worshipping, old man ; 
It breaks his heart to heir his kinsman's land : 



68 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

He'd rather heir a dukedom. How he sighs, 
Curses all sharp-edged swords, and vows henceforth 
To deal in nought but daggers. 

Shepherd. 'Faith ! we're blest, 

For he's a rare sweet gentleman. How now 
Goes on the surgery of sheep, with tar 
Instead of spell and charm, and watching them 
With a peel'd wand of witch-tree. De'il have me, 
If 1 like trusting to the wit of man. 

Graeme. Why, Cromwell and the troops of the co- 
venant 
Are coming soon to empty your sheep-folds ? 
What charms can save your sheep from soldiers' teeth 
I'd have you put in practice. Touching now 
Sir Marmaduke, the peevish stripling — he 
Play'd on the lute : 'twas deadly sin ! and sang 
Songs praising black-eyed girls — 'twas treasonable ! 
And our good lord — I'll paint no farther — soon 
May the Eternal loose my sword, and set 
Free my right hand. This secret, on my soul 
Sinks like a mill-stone ; my heart says to me, 
ee Go, shout out the stern truth." 

Macgee. Farewell, farewell, 

My well-going plough I sang so oft beside ; 
My bonnie grays which drew so fair a furrow; 
The joy to see the green corn blade arise 
Which I had sown — the gray lark sang to see it ; — 
The holy joy that silent Sabbath brings, 
When nought is heard, save the far-sounding psalm, 
And sweet bells knelling kirk ward. Oh ! my lord. 



Sc.4. STR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 60 

Graeme. Let not thy wrath draw an unfated sword — 
The hour is coming, and the right hand's ready 
That shall avenge this deed. Make it a warning; 
Even from Caerlaverock to the uttermost earth — 
We'll spill his guilt-cup when it tops the brim. 
And give him to perdition. 

jSIacgee. Be it soon ! 

For , Simon Graeme, why should we stand and see 
The murderer wipe his bloody sword, and smile, 
Nor smite him to the dust, — in hope that heaven 
Will call in thunder <c Strike ! " Oh ! Simon Graeme, 
Men may mistake the stars — the signs above 
Are hard to understand, and all men read them 
Even as their own wills list. 

Graeme. Thou say'st the truth ; 

Yet thou but echoest me. Go, seek to stay 
The rushing of that river; keep the sea 
From leaping on the land — curb in yon sun 
From his bright journey ; and say to the wind, 
Awake thou when I list. Lo ! they run all 
Their destined courses ; and, they stay, but not 
For mortal bidding — all the might of man : 
Man, glorious man, who wears gold on his brow, 
And steel in his right hand, can mock at them, 
Not stay them —What is wnTd will surely be ; 
God walks his way in silence, till his hour, 
And then men hearken thunder. So, my friend, 
Keep thy voice silent, and thy good sword ready— 
Ere three days pass, such tidings will be heard 
As ne'er were heard in Nithsdale. (Exeunt.) 



70 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 



SCENE V. Coast of Galloway. 

Enter Lady Maxwell, and Page. 

Lady Maxwell. Woe ! nothing but woe ! I saw the 
blood blades bare, 
And my lord's head smote i' the dust. Had I 
Clasp'd him unto my bosom, and looked up — 
And to their swords exposed my tender body, 
And my voice melting ripe with woe, — implored 
Mercy one moment, it had been in vain. 
You winged ones, who carry swords to shape 
God's retribution out — you holy spirits, 
Who fly to the uttermost earth to shield good men 
When murder's blade is bare ; Oh ! where were ye ? 
God's wrath burns not 'gainst murder, as the creed 
For some wise purpose words it. The full moon, 
Yea, and the tender stars, look'd on, and smiled, 
While my lord's life-blood cried from earth, above 
The cherubim's abodes. 

Page. Here come two men ; 

Shepherds they seem ; but let us hear them speak ; 
They may wear steel plates under their gray weeds. 
Men are not what they seem. (Exeunt.) 

Enter Shepherds. 
First Shepherd. Now, peace be here ! 

A floor of scented cedar ! I say, give her 
A floor of earth, and lay green rushes on it. 



Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 71 

Second S. Floors of fine cedar ! give her a tarr'd stick, 
And a teat of tarry wool. She kens far more 
Of smearing sheep, and clipping sheep, than dwelling 
On bonnie boarded floors. 

First Shepherd. Sad tidings, man ! 

Sad tidings, man— the douce dame of the glen, 
Douce Mabel Moran lies at the last gasp. 
Lang John Dargavel saw her wraith yestreen 
Come like a gray mist round the hip o' th ? hill. 

Second S. We'll have a sample of sleety weather soon, 
Rots and elf-arrows; Mabel will be miss'd. 

First Shepherd. Speak low — speak low — it's barely 
safe to talk 
O Mabel's gifts ; gifts did I call them ? Gifts 
From the foul creature that divides the hoof, 
And yet's not eatable. Dying did I say ? 
None born will brag they carried her feet foremost : 
Many a fair form she's stretched on their last cloth, 
And mickle burial wine she's drank — but she 
Lives on, and will. I heard John Cameron say, 
That sinful Mabel would leave this sad world 
With a wild sugh — no coffin, and no shroud. 

Second Shepherd. Prodigious man ; but that is horrid. 
First Shepherd. Now 

Last night, our Jean, a fearless lassie, went 
To watch old Mabel through the night. The dame 
Said, Wait not with me, sweet maid, in this desart, 
A fair form from the east will ere day dawn 
Come here, and comfort me. 



72 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

Second Shepherd. O fearful be't : 

A fair form from the east — prodigious man ! 
But that is horrid. Satan, I dread thy wiles — 
Satan, they say, among the maidens, comes 
Like a fair youth that plays on pipe and tabor, 
And sings most graceless pleasant ballads. — 

Re-enter Lady Maxwell and Page. 
Now God be near us ; here is the fair form 
Come from the east too — wait on her yeresell ; 
I'm but the new-come shepherd, and shall e'en 
Climb CritTel like a deer. 

First Shepherd. Gomeral and gowk ! 

Run, and she'll turn thee to a fox, and turn 
Herself into a hound, and hunt ye round 
From JBurnswark to Barnhourie. Gracious me, 
She's cross'd the salt sea in a cockle shell, 
A cast of slipper, or flown o'er the foam 
O' the Solway, like a sheldrake. 

Lady Maxwell. Youth, return ; 

I know one of these shepherds well ; he'll lead me 
To where the good dame lives. Take thou this 

token 
To my fair son. It was his father's gift 
Upon our bridal day. Say that I spake not ; 
But press'd it to my breast, as I do now, 
And rain'd it o'er with tears. {Exit Page.) 

First Shepherd. This is a dame 

From the Caerlaverock side, far kenn'd and noted ; 



Sc 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 73 

She sits by Sol way, and says " e'en he f t sae;" 
And straight the waters roar, and duck the ships 
Like waterfowl. ' Faith, we must speak her fair. 

Sec. Shep. O ! soft and fair ; O ! Saunders, soft and fair: 
Who would take that sweet lady for a dame 
That deals with devils ? Sin has a lovely look. 

First Shepherd. (To Lady Maxwell.) This is a bonnie 
morning, but the dew 
Lies thick and cold ; and there are kindlier things 
To gaze on than the deep green sea. So come 
With me — even Saunders Wilson, of Witchknow T e, 
For I love Mabel like mine own heart's blood ; 
Love her and all her cummers. Come and taste 
The warm and kindly heart of corn and milk, 
Which we poor hinds call porridge. 

Second Shepherd. Bide ye there ! 

Ye might come home with me — but three o' my cows 
Last week were elf-shot, and we've placed witch-tree 
Above our lintel, and my Elspa's famed 
For a looser o' witch-knots — one that can stay 
Shrewd dames from casting cantraips. So belike, 
Douce dame, ye would nae venture to my home, 
And I can scarce advise ye. 

Lady Maxwell. Willie Macbirn, 

Thou art a kind and honest-hearted man : 
I know who supper' d on thy curds and cream 
Without thy invitation. They are nigh 
Who scorn'd thy hollow stones and rowan wands, 
And, in thy cow-house, drain'd thy seven cows dry, 
And 'neath the cold moon's eastern horn who coost 



74 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

A spell as thou earnest screaming to the world, 

To mark what death thou 'It dree. Dost thou hear that ? 

Now shall I rid me of this babbling peasant. (Aside,) 

Sec.Shep. I hope — oh ! cannie,kind and fearful woman, 
I hope ye joke. A stone of good fat cheese, 
A ham whose fat will gleam to the rannel-tree, 
I vow but.I will send you. Death 1 11 dree ! 
My conscience ! kimmer, I should like to ken. 

Lady M. Avoid the salt sea, and a bottomless boat. 

Second Shepherd. Good Lord ! now, Saunders 
Wilson, o' Witchknowe, 
D'ye hear her? I ne'er dred such things before. • 

Lady Maxwell. Dread growing hemp : but dread it 
twisted more. 

Second Shepherd. Hemp growing and twisted ! diel 
maun I dread that. 
I have been walking now these seven long years 
On a bottomless pool, on ice a sixpence thick. 

Lady Maxwell. But, chief beware what sort of 

soul art thou ? 
Had I an errand on the wide salt sea, 
Couldst thou walk on the water ? 

Second Shepherd. Walk on the water ! 

Were I five ell of wind, or a willie-wagtail, 
Then might I swim like a sheldrake on the deep : 
I '11 walk on 't when it 's paved with solid ice, 
Or when the stone is bent from bank to bank, 
Or when the cunning house of crooked timber, 
Which men do call a boat, floats in the foam ; 
But I' m no spirit, or brownie, goblin, or wraith, 



Sc. C. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 75 

Nor will-o'wisp — a deil would do 't discreetly; 
I am a sinful tender of sheep, good dame — 

Lady M. Meet me at midnight, when the risen moon 
Sits on yon hill. I '11 teach thy leaden feet 
To tread o'er curled billows. Now, begone. 

Sec. Shep. Tread on the curled billows ! horrid be 't ! 
And amble stride-legs 'tween the foul fiend's horns ! 
These are sad pranks for Jenny Jink's goodman. (Exit.) 

Lady Maxwell. Shepherd, thou seem'st to know me. I 

am one 

Be wise, and cease to know me; for my name 
May bring thee pain and peril. 

First Shepherd. Noble lady,. 

I am but a poor man ; yet hair of thy head 
I'll not see harm'd: some fearful woe, some grief 
Fit to make dull eyes weep, hath turn'd thee thus. 
O ! there are awful changes in this world ! 
But I ask nought; and I can be as mute 
As that grey stone ; and I can draw too, lady, 
For thy sake, a sharp sword. Here comes the dame, 
Even reverend Mabel. Heaven be thy shield. (Exeunt.) 



SCENE VI. A Wood on the Sea Coast. 

Lady Maxwell and Mabel Mohan. 
Mabel. Said I not soothly ? May his murderous soul 
Howl in the mirkest pit. Here have I sought 
Mine old poor refuge. Thou shalt live with me : 
For one kind shepherd brings me ewe milk cheese ; 
Another comes with the dried flesh of lambs ; 
e 2 



76 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3* 

A third doth give me new baked bread, and begs 

A mild kind winter for his woolly flocks ; 

Another comes with blankets and warm rugs, 

Blesses himself, " Good Mabel, make my sheep, 

Now worth scarce thirty pence, worth fifteen shillings 

By the lamb fair of Lockerby ; the sum to thee 

Is wondrous little, but to me 'tis large/' 

So live with me till this cloud passes by; 

A golden day is coming. Here comes one, 

A man mark'd for the sword ; I know his errand. 

Enter Sir John Gourlay. 

Sir J. This Scotch land is one desert; barren hills 
Succeeding barren valleys, and the hinds 
Look miserably poor. That men live here 
I have some doubt, for what I Ve seen are ghosts — 
Soft ! here 's an ancient dame of other days : 
1 7 d rather cross a culverin's mouth than meet her; 
She looks beyond this world. Now in my way 
She sets herself. There *s something in her looks; 
That pierces through me like a sharpen'd sword. 

Mabel. John Gourlay, what wantest thou with H albert 
Corny ne ? 

Sir John. Thrice reverend dame, I come to greet Lord 
Comyne ; 
And I did think myself a stranger here, 
'Tis my first foot in Scotland. 

Mabel. Thou dost come 

With golden tidings. Hearken what I say : 
Seek thou for Halbert Comyne one day hence, 
And thou wilt find him as that dust which thou 



Sc 7. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 77 

Dost carry on thy shoes. All, all his days 
Are noted, number'd ; and the wiles of man, 
His might, his courage, or his cruelty, 
Cannot contend with God. Now go thy way. 
Yonder 's Caerlaverock turrets, o'er the pines, 
And there lives Halbert Comyne. 

Sir John. Ancient dame, 

I have a reverence for thy hoary locks, 
And crave thy blessing. Seest thou this gold mark ? 

Mabel. John Gourlay, curse the hour that thou 
earnest here, 
To feed Caerlaverock ravens— That 's thy blessing. 

(Exeunt.) 

SCENE VII. Caerlaverock Castle. 

Halbert Comyne, alone. 

Comyne. Three of these things were men whom na- 
ture made 
In an hour of hottest haste, that she might frame 
Her master-minds at leisure. Hubert Dougan, 
Thou artmourn'd much, keen, quick, and fiery Hubert ! 
Yet thou wert thoughtful and thick-blooded grown, 
And hadst compunctious fits. 'Tis well he 's gone, 
For he had proud stuff in him ; his sharp looks 
Had more of equal in them than I wish'd : 
And he was fickle as an April morn ; 
As changeable as a maiden in her teens ; 
And dangerous as a drawn dagger placed 
In a. moody madman's hand. 

Servant. (Entering.) Please you, my lord, 



78 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

A messenger all reeking in hot haste, 

A messenger with gold spurs on his heels, 

From plume to spur all soil'd with desperate travel, 

Is come with princely greetings for your ear. 

Com. Go guide him here. This world, this little world 
Is given me now, to god me, or undo me ; 
And I have won it the way makes angels weep. 
Yet I'm no murderer with a marble heart, 
A scorner of grave maxims and sage saws, 
Who seeks to win this world and lose the next, 
And casts away the hope to sit and harp 
By the hip of douce King David. There 's a time 
My heart will cease to crow to mount my steed, 
My brow will weary of its golden weight; 
I'll cast my cuirass and my sword aside, 
And kneel and vow that I am grown God's soldier; 
And then will come our mantled presbyters, 
And groan some sage saint-saying 'bout repentance ; 
And rank me with the elect, while some sweet maid 
Will lay her white hand on mine old bald head, 
And vow that I look wondrous at fourscore. 

Enter Sir John Gourlay. 
Sir J. Hear, Noble Sir ! my Lord Protector greets you 
Lord Warden of the Marches; and this letter 
Reveals his wishes farther. 

Corny ne. What is this ? (Reads.) 

" From Richard Cromwell, Lord Protector, greeting." 
(Aside.) How in the name of the fiend climb'd this soft 

boy 
To an eagle's perch like this ? Thou unfledged thing, 



Sc. 7- SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 70 

To dare to mount December's darkest storm 

On wings too weak for summer. Thou Protector ? 

Thou beardless school-boy, with a sword of straw, 

And crown of new-pull'd rushes ! Let me see : 

" To our right trusty cousin, Halbert Comyne — 

We greet you Warden of the Scottish March; 

And of our troops from Tweed unto the Forth 

We make you sole commander." This sounds well. — - 

Now, what's your name? I 'm sure I Ye seen your face, 

And in a perilous place too. 

Sir John. Of small note 

Is my poor name — John Gourlay, of Giltford. 

Com.- What ! Sir John Gourlay, who on Marston Moor 
Soil'd the gilt coats of the gay cavaliers ? 
Sir John, thou'lt bear my standard, with a hand 
Steeve as the tempered steel. Now speed and spur, 
Muster our troops, and rouse our rude dull rustics, 
For arm 7 d rebellion halloos in the wind : 
Monck sits in moody meditation here ; 
And cavaliers have put their feet in the stirrups, 
And pluck'd their pennons up. 

Sir John. Now, noble general, 

I crave small thanks for telling a strange tale. 
As I spurr'd past where yon rough oak wood climbs 
The river-margin, I met something there — 
A form so old, so wretched, and so withered, 
I scarce may call it woman ; loose her dress 
As the wind had been her handmaid, and she lean'd 
Upon a crooked crutch. When she saw me, 
She yell'd, and strode into my path ; my steed 



80 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 3. 

Shook, and stood still, and gazed with me upon her : 
She smiled on me as the devil does on the damn'd ; 
A smile that would turn the stern stroke of my sword 
Into a feather's touch. I smoothed my speech 
Down from the martial to the shepherd's tone, 
And stopp'd my basnet to my saddle bow, 
And ask'd for the castle of my good Lord Comyne ; 
Her eye glanced ghastly on me — and I saw 
Aneath its sooty fringe the glimmering fire : 
" Go seek thou Halbert Comyne one day hence, 
Thou 'It find him even as the dust which thou 
Dost carry on thy shoes. His days and hours 
Are number'd. Can the might and pride of man 
O'ercome the doom of God ? " I ask'd her blessing : 
She smiled in devilish joy, and gave me quick 
To feed Caerlaverock ravens. 

Comyne. So that 's all ; 

For one poor plack she 'd dream thee a rare dream, 
And crown thee Lord Protector for the half 
Of a crook'd sixpence. These are old wild dames, 
Who sell the sweet winds of the south to sailors, 
Who milk the cows in Araby, and suck 
The swans' eggs of the Tigris : they can turn 
Their wooden slipper to a gilded barge ; 
Their pikestaff to a winged steed, that flies 
As far as earth grows grass. They cast their spells 
On green hot youths, and make the fond brides mourn. 
I give them garments which the moths have bored, 
And mouldy cheese— and so keep my good name, 
And my hens on my hen-roosts. {Exeunt) 



Act 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 8i 

ACT IV. 
SCENE I. Cumlongan Castle. 

Mary Douglas and May Morison. 

May Morison. This grief 's a most seducing thing — 
all ladies 
Who wish to be most gallantly wooed must sit 
And sigh to the starlight on the turret top., 
Saunter by waterfalls., and court the moon 
For a goodly gift of paleness. Faith ! I '11 cast 
My trick of laughing to the priest, and wooe 
Man, tender man, by sighing. 

Mary Douglas. The ash bough 

Shall drop with honey, and the leaf of the linn 
Shall cease its shaking, when that merry eye 
Knows what a tear-drop means. Be mute ! be mute ! 

May Morison. When gallant knights shall scale a 
dizzy wall 
For the love of a laughing lady, I shall know 
What sighs will bring i' the market. 

If love for love it mayna be, {Sings.) 

At least be pity to me shown : 
A thought ungende carina be, 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Mary D. No tidings of thee yet — my love, my love ; 

e 5 



82 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

Didst thou but live as thou earnest yesternight 
In vision'd beauty to my side, 'twere worth 
The world from east to west. 

May Morison. O lady ! lady ! 

This grief becomes you rarely ; 'tis a dress 
That costs at most a tear o' the eye — the sweetest 
Handmaid that beauty has. How thou wouldst weep 
To see some fair knight, on whose helmet bright 
A score of dames stuck favours — see him leave 
His barb'd steed standing in the wood to preach 
Thee out of thy virgin purgatory, to taste 
The joys of wedded heaven. (A knock heard at the gate.) 

Mary Douglas. See who this is 

That knocks so loud and late. (Exit May Morison.) 

Ye crowded stars, 
Shine you on one so wretched as I am? 
You have your times of darkness, but the cloud 
Doth pass away ; and you shine forth again 
With an increase of loveliness — from me 
This cloud can never pass. So now, farewell, 
Ye twilight watchings on the castle top 
For him, who made my glad heart leap and bound 
From my bosom to my lip. 

Enter Halbert Comyne. 
Comyne. Now, beauteous lady, 

Jcy to your meditations : your thoughts hallow 
Whate'er they touch ; and aught you think on 's blest. 
Miry Douglas. I think on thee, but thou 'rt not there- 
fore bless'd. 



Sc. 1. Sift MARMADUKE MAXWELL. S3 

What must I thank for this unwish'd-for honour ? 

Com. Thyself thanks gentle one : thou art the cause 
Why I have broken slumbers and sad dreams. 
Why I forget high purposes, and talk 
Of nought but cherry lips. 

Mary Douglas, Now were you, sir, 

Some unsunn'd stripling, you might quote to me 
These cast-off saws of shepherds. 

Corny ne. The war trump 

Less charms my spirit than the sheep-boy's whistle. 
My barbed steed stamps in his stall, and neighs 
For lack of his arm'd rider. Once I dream'd 
Of spurring battle steeds, of carving down 
Spain's proudest crests to curious relics; and 
I cleft in midnight vision the gold helm 
Of the proud Prince of Parma. 

Mary Douglas. Thanks, my lord ; 

You are blest in dreams, and a most pretty teller 
Of tricks in sleep — and so your dream is told : 
Then, my fair sir, good night. 

Comyne. You are too proud, 

Too proud, fair lady ; yet your pride becomes you ; 
Your eyes lend you divinity. Unversed 
Am I in love's soft silken words — unversed 
In the cunning way to win a gentle heart. 
When my heart heaves as if 't would crack my corslet, 
I'm tongue-tied with emotion, and I lose 
Her that I love for lack ot honey'd words 

Mary D. Go, school that rann simplicity of thine : 



84 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

Learn to speak falsely in love's gilded terms ; 
Go learn to sugar o'er a hollow heart ; 
And learn to shower tears, as the winter cloud, 
Bright, but all frozen ; make thy rotten vows 
Smell like the rose of July. Go, my lord; 
Thou art too good for this world. 

Corny ne. My fair lady, 

Cease with this bitter but most pleasant scoffing ; 
For 1 am come upon a gentle suit, 
Which I can ill find terms for. 

Mary Douglas, Name it not. 

Think it is granted; go now. Now farewell: 
I 'm sad, am sick — a fearful faintness comes 
With a rush upon my heart ; so now, farewell. 

Comyne. Lo ! how the lilies chace the ruddy rose 

What a small waist is this ! 

Mary Douglas. That hand ! That hand ! 

There 's red blood on that right hand, and that brow : 
There 's motion in my father's statue ; see, 
Doth it not draw the sword? Unhand me, sir. 

Comyne. Thou dost act to the life ; but scare not me 
With vision'd blood-drops, and with marble swords ; 
I 'm too firm stuff, thou 'It find, to start at shadows. 

Mary D. Now were thy lips with eloquence to drop, 
As July's wind with balm ; wert thou to vow 
Till all the saints grew pale ; kneel i' the ground 
Till the green grass grew about thee ; had thy brow 
The crowned honour of the world upon it ; 
I 'd scorn thee — spurn thee. 

Comyne. Lady, scom not me. 



Sc. 1. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 85 

! what a proud thing is a woman, when 

She has red in her cheek. Lady, when I kneel down 
And court the bridal gift of that white hand 
Thou wavest so disdainfully, why then 

1 give thee leave to scorn me. I have hope 
To climb a nobler, and as fair a tree, 

And pull far richer fruit. So scorn not me : 
I dream of no such honour as thou dread'st. 

Mary Douglas. And what darest thou to dream of ? 

Corny ne. Of thee, lady. 

Of winning thy love on some bloom'd violet bank, 
When nought shines save the moon, and where no proud 
Priest dares be present; lady, that 's my dream. 

Mary D. Let it be still a dream, then ; lest I beg 
From heaven five minutes' manhood, to make thee 
Dream it when thou art dust. 

Comyne. Why, thou heroine, 

Thou piece o' the rarest metal e'er nature stamp'd 
Her chosen spirits from, now I do love thee, 
Do love thee much for this ; I love thee more 
Than loves a soldier the grim looks of war, 
As he wipes his bloody brow. 

Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, unseen. 
Sir Marmaduke. (aside.) What ! what is this ? 
She whom I love best — he whom I hate worst ? — 
Is this an airy pageant of the fiends ? 

Mary Douglas. (Aside.) Down ! down ! ye proud 
drops of my bosom, be 
To my dull brain obedient. (To Comyne.) My good lord, 



86 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

Much gladness may this merry mood of yours 
With a poor maiden bring you. I thank you much 
For lending one dull hour of evening wings 
To fly away so joyous. 

Sir Marmaduke. (Aside.) Mine ears have 
Turned traitors to my love ; else they receive 
A sound more dread than doomsday. Oh ! thou false — ■ 
Thou did'st seem purer than the undropt dew, 
Chaste as the unsunn'd snow-drops' buds disclosed 
Unto the frosty stars ; and truer far 
Than blossom to the summer, or than light 
Unto the morning. And dost thou smile too, 
And smile on him so lovingly ? bow too 
That brow of alabaster? Woman — woman. 

Comyne. O ! for a month of such sweet gentle chiding, 
From such ripe tempting lips ! Now, fair young lady, 
As those two bright eyes love the light, and love 
To see proud man adore them, cast not off 
For his rough manner, and his unpruned speech, 
A man who loves you. Gentle one, we '11 live 
As pair'd doves do among the balmy boughs. 

Sir Marmaduke. (Aside.) Painted perdition, dost thou 
smile at this ? 

Mary Douglas. This is a theme I love so well, I wish 
For God's good day-light to it ; so farewell. 

Comyne, An hour aneath the new risen moon to wooe, 
Is worth a summer of sunshine : a fair maid 
Once told me this; and lest I should forget it, 
Kiss'd me, and told it twice. 

Sir Marmaduke. (Aside.) Dare but to touch 



Sc. 1, SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 87 

Her little finger,, faithless as she is ; 

Yea, or her garment's hem My father's sword, 

Thou hadst thy temper for a nobler purpose; 

So keep thy sheath : for did I smite him now, 

Why men would say, that for a father's blood 

Mine slept like water 'neath the winter ice ; 

But when a weak sweet woman chafed my mood, 

And made sport of her vows, then my blood rose, 

And with my spirit burning on my brow 

I sprang wi' my blade to his bosom. So then, sleep 

Fast in thy sheath. Before that lovely face, 

Those lips I Ve kiss'd so fondly, and that neck 

Round which mine arms have hung, I could not strike 

As the son of my father should. 

Mary Douglas, Now, fair good night. 

To thee, most courteous sir. I seek the chace 
From dark Cumlongan to green Burnswark top, 
With hawk and hound, before to-morrow's sun 
Has kiss'd the silver dew. So be not found 
By me alone beneath the greenwood bough ; 
Lest I should wooe thee as the bold dame did 
The sire of good King Robert. [Exit.) 

Corny ne. Gentle dreams 

To thee, thou sweet one : gladly would I quote 
The say of an old shepherd : mayst thou dream 
Of linking me within thy lily arms ; 
And leave my wit, sweet lady, to unravel 't. [Exit.) 

Sir Marmaduke. And now there 's nought for me in 
this wide world 
That 's worth the wishing for. For thee, false one, 



88 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

The burning- hell of an inconstant mind 
Is curse enough ; and so we part in peace. 
And now for thee— I name thee not ; thy name, 
Save for thy doom, shall never pass my lips — 
Depart untouch'd : there 's something in this place 
Which the stern temper that doth spill men's blood 
Is soften'd by. We 're doom'd once more to meet, 
And never part in life. (Exit.) 



SCENE II. Caerlaverock Castle. 

Halbert Comyne and Sir John Gourlay. 

Comyne. And so the English cuirassiers are come 
With Sir John RashguTs spears ? 

Sir John. Not all, my lord : 

Seven were left praying by the river side, 
For it to stay like Jordan : and they '11 pray, — 
For the cursed stream keeps running. And ten more 
Sat singing cc Stroudwater," by a living brook, 
To the hundred and nineteenth psalm. 

Comyne. No more, I say ; 

These men pray not more fervent than they fight. 
Now, good Sir John, I have a gentle deed 
For thee to do ; nay, nay, 'tis no dirk work. 
I'd have thee wear the sweet look of sixteen, 
When it ventures first 'mongst maidens. 

Sir John. Sword or speech, 

My lord, are ready ; I can work with both, 
But brief — most wond'rous brief. 



Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 89 

Comyne. The bravest men 

Are oft the briefest— thou mayst be as brief 
As a bride's prayer 'neath the blanket. But,, Sir John, 
She has a marvellous soft and winning way, 
A sovereignty in her look, which melts 
Flint hearts as wax ; she eloquently moves 
Hands of surpassing whiteness ; and her tongue 
'Twixt her lip-rubies is a thing can charm 
The raven's voice to sing. 

Sii^John. 'Tis rarely painted. 

Is she some mermaid of the flood, my lord, 
That I must find to charm ye ? — you Ve described 
A thing too hard to catch. 

Comyne. She is no maid 

Of the salt flood — but she 's the sweetest maid 
On the green earth. In yon high turret, see, 
O'er which the twin bright stars are travelling, where 
The casements gleam so gallantly, she dwells. 
Here glows the red wine, ready for her lips : 
Here is a soft couch for her gentle limbs ; 
This arm shall be her pillow ; and what more 
Can a good soldier offer, kind Sir John ? 

Sir J. She '11 ask me for some token, good my lord, 
Some antique ring, some rare and costly gem, 
A dirty stone set deep in dirty gold ; 
Or she may have a love for bonnet pieces, 
The coin o' her native country. Is she soft, 
And will listen to sweet speech ? 

Comyne. Stay ! take this ring ; 

And, for thy pains, take thou this purse of gold. 



90 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

Nay, linger not to reckon it; begone. {Exit Sir John.) 

This fellow has his price. I love him for 't; 

He does the deed, and is paid. But he that doth 

His right hand wash in my foe's heart, for love 

Of shining with my rising, puts a bitt 

Between my lips, and follows all my steps 

With the halloo of hell. {Exit) 



SCENE III. Cumlongan Castle. 

Mary Douglas and May Moris ox. 

Mary Douglas. Bring me my page's mantle and 
plumed bonnet, 
My little dagger with the golden hilt ; 
A breath of time is all that sunders me 
From a life-time of dishonour. 

May Morison. In the name 

Of Meg Macnay, who shaped the winding sheet 
Of her first husband and her second's shirt 
At once from the same web, what hastes us now ? 

{Sings.) O ! Mary, at thy window be, 

This is the wish'd, the trysted hour. {Exit.) 

Mary D. A strange bold courage buoys my spirit up : 
Yestreen I dream'd my father's spirit stood 
One foot on Solway, and one foot on shore ; 
And still kept waving seaward. I '11 not stay 
And yield my fame up with a shriek, like dames 
Who dread to soil their slippers. 



Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 91 

May Morisox enters singing. 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed through the lighted ha, 

To thee my fancy took its wing : 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. {Dresses her.) 

Eh ! help me, madam, you Ve a martial look ; 
The bonnet fits you rarely — the sword, too, 
Doth seem as natural, bless me, to your hand, 
As the leaf is to the tree. 

Mary Douglas. "What is the hour ? 

May Morison. The hour young witches walk in, and 
work pranks 
With the wits of wisest men — 'tis short of twelve. 

{Sings.) I sigh'd and said, among them a' 

Ye are nae Mary Morison. 

Mary Douglas. Farewell ! thou hast been faithful; so 
take this,, 
And take this too — we '11 meet in better times. 

May 21. Lord ! I 'm not shod in shoes of lead — I '11 go 
And see this young sweet gentleman— his boat 
Mayhap may carry double. 

Mary Douglas. Of whom speakest thou ? 

I know no one — I go far off, I care not 
With whom I meet. In this wide world but one 
Breathes, who would wrong my wretchedness. 

May J.Iorison. I speak 

Of him — even he himself — him you aye dream of. 
Lord, lady, how you crimson. The proud youth 
Who writes vou such rare ballads Redder vet ? 



02 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

And sings them in your ear — Sir Marmaduke, 
He who waits for you in the greenwood now. - 

Mary D. Make mirth with other subjects — but on this 
Hold thy unkind and most ungentle tongue ; 
He is where the blessed be. 

May Morison. Lord ! Lord ! my lady, 

My grey eyes are not marble. I can tell 
A flesh and blood youth from a saint of heaven : 
Why he stood here five minutes since as pale 
As one come from the grave. He saw you; heard you 
Wooe his grey-headed kinsman : he wax'd pale ; 
Wax'd paler still, and paler, and his eyes 
Shot from them positive fire. 

Mary Douglas. Look in my face ; 

I am no baby, whom a sugar' d tale 

As you dread heaven, say, did you see him ? now 
Look me firm in the face. 

May Morison. Lord ! here 's the piece 

Of good red gold he gave me — it 's no vision ; 
'Twill buy me a green kirtle, and a snood : 
He gave me a kiss, too, well worth twice as much ; 
I feel 't yet on my lips — a kiss far kinder 
Than e'er Jock Tamson gave me. See him, lady ! 
My sooth I saw him, and I '11 warrant him 
Worth all the saints o' the calendar, and sweeter 
To thee than fifty visions. 

Alary Douglas. He is living ! — 

So take my bent knees, heaven. O ! my love, 
My tried, my faithful, and my gallant love ; 
I'll follow thee o'er the world — And he was here 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 93 

'Scaped from extremest peril — pale did you say ? 
I' 11 seek, I '11 find him, and sink into his arms. 
Come, wilt thou go with me ? 

May Morison. Look, lady, look : 

The night is monstrous mirk, and the grass damp : 
Cumlongan greenwood is no gracious place, 
And I Ve a new snood I would gladly sew, 
And I Ve a kind lad I must meet to-night. 

Mary Douglas. They have the noblest guide who 
have but God ; 
I give me to his guidance : so, farewell. (Exeunt.) 



SCENE IV. Cumlongan Wood. 

Enter Sir John Gourlay. 
Sir J. So here's the roost of this same song-bird. Soft ! 
Here comes one of her pages. 

Enter Mary Douglas, disguised. 

There 's no lady 
But has a shadow such as this, a thing 
To fan her bosom in the sun — to seek 
Out banks of violets for her — shaded nooks 
Floor' d and roof d o'er with woodbine, where she may 
Be sweetest kiss'd in sleep. Now stay, stay, youth ; 
Thou cool'st thy young blood late. 

Mary Douglas. An orphan poor, 

Outcast from those I love, I sorrowing seek 
Kind service, and kind hearts. 



94 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4, 

Sir John, Thou 'st found them both. 

So go with me. What dost thou gaze at, shake at 
Even as an aspen leaf? 

Mary Douglas. Sir, I am seeking 

A face to please my fancy ; Imno servant 
To every man that whistles, and cries Come. 

Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell. 
I am not corn for every crow to peck ; 
And so, good night. 

Sir John. In faith, proud stripling, no ; 

You go with me ? I '11 find thee prettier work 
Than curling locks for a lascivious maiden ; 
Come ! else my hand shall teach thy feet obedience : — 
And thou so shakest and sobb'st too ? By my faith, 
My pretty one, you are not what yon seem. 

Mary D. O ! let me go. Oh ! kind sir, let me go ; 
If e'er you parted with one you loved dear, 
E'er won the blessing of a gentle heart, 
E'er wet your cheeks at other's deep distress, 
E'er won heaven's smile by one bright deed of mercy, 
E'er spared the milky head of reverend age, 
The babe with mother's milk between its lips, 
The mother, when her white hands she held up 
Against the lifted steel, — spare — let me go. 

Sir Marmaduke. (Aside.) This moves not him. This 
is a goodly youth, 
Free of his speech, and touching in his words ; 
He has won my heart already — let me hear. 

Sir John. Thou goest on some suspicious errand — so 



Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 95 

Milk not thine eyes to me. Come, thou It page still 
Thy lady's heels, for she doth sleep to-night 
In the arms of Halbert Comyne. Come, now, come ; 
Hast thou some love pledge in thy bosom, come — 
Faith I shall find it out. (Seizes her.) 

Sir Marmaduke. Sir ! stay your hand : 

This youth should be the chooser, not the chosen. 
Though he 's a sun-burnt stripling, sir, a thing 
That can outweep a girl — pray let him go ; 
Free limbs endure no bondage. 

Sir John. Prating sheep-boy, 

Darest thou talk so to me ? To thy flocks — begone — 
And tell thy grandame that John Gourlay smote thee 
With the flat side of his sword. (Strikes him.) 

Sir Marmaduhe. Sir, use the edge on 't ! 

For by the rood and eagle they do need 
Courage, and fence, who strike one of my name. 

Sir John. I 've ta'en the wild hawk for the hooded 
crow. (Exeunt Fighting.) 



SCENE V. Cumlongan Wood. 

Sir Marmaduke Maxwell and Mary Douglas. 
Sir Marmaduke. Thou art free, stripling — use thy 
feet — fly fast, 
The chasers' swords may yet o'ertake us both. 
When thou dost fold thy flocks, and pray, Oh ! pray 
For one, whom woe and ruin hold in chace ; 
Who wears the griefs of eighty at eighteen; 



96 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

Upon whose bud the canker-dew has dropt ; 

Whose friends, love, kindred, are cold, faithless, dead : 

O ! weeping youth, pray not for me ; for God 

Has left me, and to pray for me might bring 

My fate upon thee too. Away, I pray thee. 

Mary Douglas. The wretched love the wretched ; I 
love thee 
Too well to sunder thus. I will go with thee ; 
Friends, kindred, all, are all estranged, or dead; 
An evil star has risen upon my name, 
On which no morn will rise. 

Sir Marmaduke. Thou art too soft 

I' the eye — too meek of speech — and thou dost start 
For the falling of the forest leaf, and quakest 
As the thrush does for the hawk. Who lives with me 
Must have eyes firmer than remorseless steel, 
And shake grim danger's gory hand, nor start 
For the feather of his bonnet. 

Mary Douglas. O ! I shall learn. 

I '11 sit and watch thee in thy sleep, and bring 
Thee clustering nuts ; take thee where purest springs 
Spout crystal forth ; rob the brown honey bees 
Of half their summer's gathering, and dig too 
The roots of cornick ; I will snare for thee 
The leaping hares —the nimble fawns shall stay 
The coming of mine arrow. We will live 
Like two wild pigeons in the wood, where men 
May see us, but not harm us. Take me, take me. 

Sir M. Come, then, my soft petitioner, thou plead'st 
Too tenderly for me. And thy voice, too, 



Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 97 

Has caught the echo of the sweetest tongue 
That ever blest man's ear. Where is thy home ? 
That little sun-burnt hand has never prest 
Aught harder than white curd. 

Mary Douglas. I served a lady : 

And all my time flew past in penning her 
Soft letters to her love ; in making verses 
Riddling, and keen and quaint; in bleaching white 
Her lily fingers 'mong the morning dew; 
In touching for her ear some tender string ; 
And I was gifted with a voice that made 
Her lover's ballads melting. She would lay 
Her tresses back from her dark eyes, and say, 
Sing it again. 

Sir Marmaduke. Thou wert a happy servant. 
And did thy gentle mistress love this youth, 
As royally as thou paint'st? 

Mary Douglas. O ! yes, she loved him, 

For I have heard her laughing in her sleep, 
And saying, O ! my love, come back, come back ; 
Indeed thou 'rt worth one kiss. 

Sir Marmaduke. And did her love 

Know that she dearly loved him ? Did he keep 
Acquaintance with the nightly stars, and watch 
Beneath her window for one glance of her, 
To glad him a whole winter ? 

Mary Douglas. Aye ! he tahVd much 

To her about the horn'd moon, and clear stars ; 
How colds were bad for coughs, and pangs at heart : 
And she made him sack posset, and he sung 

F 



98 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

Songs he said he made himself, and I believe him, 
For they were rife of braes and birks, and burns. 
And lips made of twin cherries, tresses loop'd 
Like the curling hyacinth. Now in my bosom 
Have I the last song which this sighing youth 
Framed for my mistress. It doth tenderly 
Touch present love : there future sadness is 
Shadow' d with melting sweetness. — 

Sir Marmaduke. This small hand — ■ 

This little trembling lily hand is soft, 
And like my Mary's. O ! my love — my love, 
Look up ! 'tis thou thyself! now blessed be 
The spot thou stand'st on, and let men this hour 
For ever reverence — heaven is busy in it. 

Mary D. O ! let us fly ! the hand of heaven, my love, 
And thine, have wrought most wond'rously for me. 

Sir M. And wilt thou trust thy gentle self with me ? 

Mary Douglas. Who can withhold me from thee — I 
had sworn 
To seek thee through the world — to ask each hind 
That held the plough, if he had seen my love ; 
Then seek thee through the sea — to ask each ship 
That pass'd me by, if it had met my love ; — 
My journey had a perilous outset, but 
A passing pleasant end. Thine enemy came : 
I pass'd a fearful and a trembling hour. — 
Sir M. I know — I heard it all — O I have wrong'd thee 
much ; 
So come with me, my* beautiful, my best ; 
True friends are near : the hour of vengeance, too, 
Is not far distant. Come, my fair one, come. {Exeunt.) 



Sc. 6. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 59 

SCENE VI. Caerlaverock Castle. 

H ALBERT COMYNE, Cllone. 

Comyne. The bold conceivement of a mighty deed 
Is all a pageant ; for the hand of man 
Is but a tardy servant of the brain, 
And follows with its leaden diligence 
The fiery steps of fancy. I do hate 
The man who still goes choosing out his steps 
I" the smoothest road to fame — he'll never do 
For days like these, when daring doings must 
Pace with the resolution. — ■ 

Enter Sir John Gourlay. 
How now, sir ? 
By heaven, this maid has brain' d thee with her distaff. 

Sir John. I saw no lady; but in the greenwood 
I found one of her slender sun- burnt pages; 
And, as I parley 'd with him, came a youth, 
A simple shepherd-seeming youth, and tall ; 
Who dropt upon me as the lightning would ; 
FoiTd me, and won my sword. Ere I could rise, 
Forth from the castle there came such a sweep 
Of ancient men, with heads more white than snow, 
Of youths with tresses like the raven's back, 
Of matrons, shrewd old dames, on whose tongues live 
The wanton deeds o' the parish, and sweet maids 
Ripe in their teens, and rosy — seeking her 
W r hom I was sent to find ! — 
f 2 



100 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

Comyne. Sir John ! Sir John ! 

This is the strangest dream thou ever hadst. 

Sir John. Aye ! and the truest too. But I would lay 
A golden basnet to a milkmaid's bowl, 
That page was no true page ; but a sweet maid 
Hid in her mantle, like the summer moon 
Shrouded in dewy mist. And that bold youth 
Who seem'd a shepherd rude, conversant with 
Flocks ring-straked, speckled and spotted, wore on his 

heels 
Spurs of pure silver. 

Comyne. By the fiends, I think 

That murder has not done sure work, and those 
Do walk the world whom the deep hungry sea 
Hath grown sick with, and given the world again ; 
Or hath not dared, for fear of heaven, to swallow. 
This page — a lady in her mantle shrouded ; 
This youth — who wears proud knighthood's silver spurs j 
This prophetess — that dooms me to the sword, 
And gives this soldier to Caerlaverock ravens ; 
And, thy fate too, my head and right hand, Hubert ! 
Macubin, ho ! go saddle our steeds straight ; 
I'll seek the woodland lair of this famed witch, 
This hag who deals in destinies of men, 
And dooms unto the diugg'd cup, or the dirk, 
All those she hates ; and hood-wink'd peasants, then, 
With sharp sword, or swift poison, make her sayings 
Come suddenly to pass. (EoceunL) 



Sc 7- SIR MARM ADUKE MAXWELL. 101 

SCEXE VII. A Wild Cave in a Wood. 

Lady Maxwell and Mabel Morax. 

Mabel. Lady,, I tell thee that sword is not forged, 
Nor is that man born yet in the wide world. 
Shall harm a hair of his head. Now stand and tell me 
What thou dost see and hear. 

Lady Maxwell. A stillness sits 

On hill, and dale, and ocean ; there is lustre 
Unwonted in the heaven — but I hear nought, 
Save the sweet waters of the Sol way sea, 
Sing 'mongst the shells and pebbles. 

Mabel. Lady, look ; 

What thinkst thou of that bright and little star ? 
See o'er Caerlaverock's turret top it stays, 
And far its shining tresses shoot o'er heaven, 
Even like a silver crown. Now, lady, this 
Comes not hi idle radiance forth ; it comes 
To tell thee that thy time of glory's coming. 
Be valiant, and believe. For ere it comes, 
Extremest peril shall compass thee and thine. 

Lady Max. Peril, again? Oh ! I do dread thee still, 
Thou high and wrathful heaven. My hope will fall, 
Even as yon large and gloomy star is flung 
From the mid sky to the earth. 

Mabel. Now, nerve your heart, 

And fill that bosom, where thy babe has suck'd, 
With courage that quails never. Thou canst do 't. 
Hear'st thou the rush of horses ? Hark ! he comes, 



102 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

And you must look upon your direst foe. 
Fear not— fear not; there is a hand, to which 
A murderer's arm is rushes, guards thee, lady. 
He comes to prove me, and to spurn me. Give 
To me that garment; I must hem 't — it will 
To-night be wanted, though the corse be quick 
That 's doom'd this shroud to fill ? 'Tis a fair sark.— 
Now, lady, swathe thy silken robe around thee; 
Hide here, and heed my song. 

THE SONG OF DOOM. 

Mabel sings. Enter Halbert Comyne and Servant. 

When the howlet has whoop'd three times i' the wood, 
At the wan moon sinking behind the cloud ; 
When the stars have crept in the wintry drift, 
Lest spells should pyke them out o' the lift ; 
When the hail and the whirlwind walk abroad, 
Then comes the steed with its unbless'd load : 
Alight — alight — and bow and come in, 
For the sheet is shaping to wind thee in. 

Comyne. This lame hag whoops an ominous song — 
hush ! hush ! 
For she doth sing again. 

Song continued. 
When didst thou measure % thou hoary heck ? 
When the sea- waves climb'd thy splintering deck, 
When hell for thee yawn'd grim and yare, 
And the fiends stood smiling on thy despair ; 
And I proved my measure, and found it good, 
When thy right hand reek'd with noble blood : 
Alight — alight — and bow and come in, 
For the sheet is shaping to wind thee in. 



Sc. 7. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 103 

Comyne. Where didst thou learn this song, thou hag ? 
What shroud 
Do thy long, sharp, and shrivelled fingers sew ? 

Song continued. 
The heart is whole that maun mense this sark, 
And I have been tax'd with a thankless dark ; 
Fast maun I sew by the gleam of the moon, 
For my work will be wanted, 'ere it be done ; 
But helms shall be cloven, and life's blood spilt, 
And bright swords crimson' d frae point to hilt. 
So say thine errand, thou man of sin ; 
For the shroud is sewing to wind thee in. 

Comyne, Beware ! lest one stroke of this good sharp 
sword 
Should mar thy skill in shroud-sewing — beware ! 
Why dost thou bend those sooty brows on me, 
And measure me o'er thus ? 

Song continued. 
Thy right hand shall lose its cunning, my lord ; 
And blood shall no more dye the point of thy sword ; 
The raven is ready, and singing hoarse, 
To dart with a croak on thy comely corse ; 
And looks all hollow mine eyes must give 
On him who has got but some hours to live : 
So say thine errand, thou man of sin ; 
The shroud is sewing to wind thee in. 

Com. Name me the man of whom thou warbles t thus. 
Beldame, dost thou mean me ? 

So Jig continued. 
I name not his name, let him think on my strain ; 
There 's a curse on them that shall name him again. 



104 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

I mean the man — even he who gave 

A noble corse to a midnight grave ; 

I mean the man — name thou his name, 

Who drown'd a sweet youth, and a comely dame. 

So say thine errand, thou man of sin ; 

For the shroud is sewing to wind thee in. 

Com. There seems a dooms-note sounding in this song ! 
Old dame, who taught thee these wild words, and gave 
Thee this cursed shroud to sew? 

Song continued. 

I learn'd my skill from those who will sever 

Thy soul from grace, for ever and ever ; 

The moon has to shine but a stricken hour, 

And I maun work while the spell has power. 

They are nigh who gave me this dark to do, 

This shroud to shape, and this shroud to sew ; 

They are nigh who taught this song to me. 

Look north, look south ; say what dost thou see. 

Com. From me wild words alone no credence gain, 
And I see nothing, save this dreary cave, 
And thine accursed self. 

Song continued* 
To the heaven above — down to the earth dark, 

Now look and tell me what dost thou mark. ► 

Appear, from the deep and darksome wave ; 
Appear, from the dark and the dreary grave ; 
Appear ! from your presence the sinful shall soon 
Pass away, as yon cloud passes now from the moon. 
The time is come now, else it never shall be. 
Look east, and look west ; say, what dost thou see ? 

Comyne. Come, come, thou dotard beldame — thy 
strange words 



Sc. 7- SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 105 

Dismay me not — things visible and felt 

(Sees Lady Maxwell.) 
Eternal God ! what form is this ? does fancy- 
Hoodwink my reason with a dreamer's marvel ? 
Art thou a figure painted out of air ? 
Pale and majestic form, I've sinn'd against thee, 
Beyond repentance' power. Is there another ? 

(Sees the spirit of Lord Maxwell.) 
What terrible shape is that ? Art thou a thing 
Permitted thus to blast my sight — or but 
The horrible fashioning of the guilty eye ? 
This bears the stamp of flesh and blood — but thou, 
Thou undefined and fearful, thou dost make 
A baby's heart-strings of my martial nerves ; 
I'll look on thee no longer — mine eyes ache 
As if they gazed upon a fiery furnace. 
Give me some drink, Macubin. 

Servant. Oh ! my lord, 

What moves you thus ? 

Corny ne. Dost thou see nought, Macubin? 

Nought that doth make your firm knees knock like mine, 
And make your heart against your bosom leap, 
And make you think upon the blood you've spilt, 
And make you think on heaven's eternal wrath ? 

Servant. I see this old dame, and thine honour'd self; 
What should I see, my lord ? 

Comyne. O ! nothing— shadows : 

Such as the eye shapes to alarm the heart. 
Nay, nothing — nothing. Ancient dame, I've been 
Ungentle in my speech ; I've wrong'd thee much. 



106 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 4. 

I will repair the folly of this hour 

With a fair cot and garden — they are gone — 

Perchance were never here, for the eye works 

Unto the timid thought, and the thought paints 

Forms from the mire of conscience, will-o' wisps 

To dazzle sober reason. (Exeunt ) 



Act 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 107 

ACT V. 

SCENE I. Caerlaverock Castle. 

Sir John Gourlay, Captains and Soldiers, 

First C. There are three beacons burning in the west j 
Half heaven is ruddy — miekle do I wish 
Our Avarlike leader here. 

Second Captain, For one full hour 

Have signal horns kept sounding, sulphur lights 
Shoot thick as stars — the long-hair' d cavaliers 
Have got their feet in the stirrups ; else this stir 
Is past my groping out. 

Third Captain. 'Tis rumour'd, Monck 

Has pluek'd his standard up, and vow'd to wash 
The dusty fetlocks of his jaded steeds 
In the silver Tweed. 

Sir John. This war's a pleasant pastime. 

A rich town's sack is worth the wishing for. 
And cavaliers wear gold spurs on their heels — 
Have broad domains to forfeit ; current gold 
Is plenty in their pockets, and their ladies 
Wear far more jewels in their clustering locks 
Than would buy a baron's land. 

First Captain. This southron Monck 

Is of mean blood — a wart but newly grown 
On the rough lip of war. 

Second Captain. We've wet our swords 



108 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

In enemies' blood together. Surer hand 
Ne'er cleft a helmet ; and his courage is 
A plaything to his craft. 

Enter Halbert Comyne. 

Sir John. Hail, noble general ! 

We wait your will,, for there are strange tales stirring. 

Comyne. I would have faced the eldest born of hell 
Sooner than such a shadow. My knees shook : 
I'll never trust them more ; my right hand too 
Pluck'd not my sword, for I was over-crow'd, 
Rebuked into a boy, bearded i' the lists, 
Which none that ever bore a sword dared do, 
By a ballad singing beldame. I'll ne'er look 
God's sun again i' the face. 

Sir John. My noble lord, 

There is a reeking courier come with news, 
And news of mighty note. 

Comyne. I stood stone still, 

And heard her chaunting on no fabled theme, 
And saw her sewing up my winding sheet; 
Gay as a girl would hem her bridal sark. 
Curse on her calling, and curse on her song ! 
There is more craft than charm and spell in this ; 
She'll hear from me if five whole hours flee past, 
And I can draw my sword. — Now, noble soldiers, 
In things of mighty moment was I wrapt ; 
Forgive this tardy welcome. 

Sir John. Beacons, my lord, 

Have blazed this hour upon Terreagles' hills ; 
On tower and castle, and the desart sea, 



Sc. 1. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 109 

Lights glimmer thick ; the trumpets ceaseless sound ; 
Arm'd men continual troop it to and fro ; 
And there are tidings that deserve a tongue 
Which can articulate thunder. 

Comyne, I know all. 

My Lord Protector has resign'd his sword ; 
'Twas much too hot to handle. General Monck 
Is marching on to England ; pond'ring mute 
Upon a King's crown,, and Protector's sword ; 
And Lambert comes with ready blade to meet him : 
They soon may spill some foolish blood about it. 
The Stewarts' banner now flies on the sea ; 
And Sir Luke Langton has a few hot youths 
Who wish to win their spurs — and that is all. 

Sir John, My lord, youVe summ'd up ten long tales 
in little ; 
And you might add., the Praying Parliament 
Pray for the aid of your decisive steel, 
To chasten General Monck. 

Comyne. It is all well; 

Pitch our pavilions on Caerlaverock lea ; 
Give lords their down beds, and their gilded roofs : 
Give me the greenwood, and the lily lea ; 
The tented canvas rustling on strain'd strings ; 
The sea behind me chafing on its shores ; 
My foes before me, numerous as the leaves 
Of this wide forest, and I would lay down 
My helmed head upon that rough gray stone, 
And sleep as fearless, 'till the trumpets sung, 
As that blackbird on the bough. (Exeunt.) 



110 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 



SCENE II. A Tent on Caerlaverock Lea. Midnight. 

Halbert Comyne, Sir John Gourlay, Captains, §c. 

Com. Before the sun-rise we commence our march, 
And ford the gentle Nith by break of day, 
Nor pass through old Dumfries. 

Sir John. Far in the west 

The chief strength of the martial covenant lies, 
And that way marches Monck. 

First Captain. Four regiments good 

From Nithsdale, Annandale, and the green glens 
Of mountain Galloway, march under Monck. 

Second Captain. I know each man by name; with them 
IVe stood 
Knee deep in moats, and trenches ; and we've washed 
In England's brooks our bloody hands together. 

Third C. And did our general wave his bonnet feather, 
They'd cast their banners in the Tweed, and hang 
Monck up to feed the hawks. 

Sir John. Or sell his head 
For thrice its weight in beaten gold — each eye, 
In the pressing peril of the times, is worth 
A kingdom wide ; and his right hand would bring 

Com. Now keep some converse for the morning's march. 
How now ? What say the peasants ? Where are they ? 

Enter Soldier. 
Soldier. My lord, each peasant in this vale 's become 



Sc. 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Ill 

Thine enemy on the sudden. I explain d 

Your order for their armed muster : they 

Laugh'd loud,, and one show'd me the hilt of his sword, 

And said, " I draw it at no villains bidding/' 

And clang* d it in the sheath ; another cried, 

u Tell Halbert Comyne, when he finds a stream 

That can make milk white murder's spotted hand, 

Wash — wash ; I'll be his soldier ; " straight a third 

Said, <c Say one saw on Solway yesternight 

A lovely lady, and her sweet son, sailing 

In a bottomless boat." And one stern man, 

Whom they call'd Simon Graeme, took me aside, 

And talk'd of destiny, and drew his sword ; 

Said, ' ' Soldier, seest thou this ? the blood thou seest 

(And it was red with late spilt blood, my lord) 

Is Hubert Dougan's." 

^Comyne. Take six armed men, 

And bring this rustic — keep him mute — or slay him, 
Should he breathe but a word. 

Soldier. My lord, I heard 

These tidings as a soldier should ; I drew 
My sword— so did my comrades. This man is 
A thing not to be taken. He slew two ; 
And though I grappled with him, he did shake 
Me like a baby from him ; and, unharm'd, 
Leap'd in the dashing river. 

Corny ne. For his head 

A score of bonnet pieces ! twenty more 
To hear him speak ten words upon the rack ! 



112 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

For he *s a proven traitor to the state, 
And no rude peasant he. 

Sir John, Lord, how much gold ! 

And pure gold, too ! I've fought for seven long years, 
And never made so much. I go, my lord ; 
This is a glorious ransom. I will have him, 
If he tarries above ground. All current gold ! 

(Exeunt Sir John Gourlay, and soldiers,) 

Com. What kind of night is this ? A sickening weight 
Hangs in the air ; the moon is down, and yet 
Her light is left behind her. I can see 
'Tis past midnight upon the chapel clock. 

First Captain. 'Tis on the stroke of twelve— 'tis a 
wild night, 
A fearful looking night— ranks of grim clouds 
Stand all around us on the woodland tops ; 
At times, behind them, flashes of live fire 
Brighten, but burst not through. 

Second Captain. As I unfurl'd 

Lord Maxwell's banner o'er this tent to-night, 
A thing even like a flying banner came 
And pitch'd itself aside it. I straight strook 
The spectre banner with my lance ; and, lo ! 
Forth gush'd red fire, even as blood gushes from 
The thrusting of a spear— and it evanish'd. 

Comyne. So vanish thou. 

Enter a Soldier. 

How now, what shadow, man, 



Sc 2. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 113 

Has chased away the red blood from thy cheek ? 

Soldier. My lord., as I stood on the watch to-night, 
Down where the pinewood stretches to the sea, 
An armed phantom came and march'd aside me, 
And measured step and step. 

Corny ne, I'll hear no more ; 

Go out, and learn to look on thine own shadow. 
Now let no one come in my tent to-night; 
Wait, four of you, and sleep, or walk, or watch, 
Even as it feels most pleasant. As you love me, 
And as you fear me, see for me no visions ; 
Call me up with the first cock crow. Good night. 

First C. My lord, we beg to stretch us on the ground, 
To wooe an hour of slumber. 

Corny ne. Court and find it. 

(Captains stretch themselves on the floor, and sleep.') 
Now golden slumber has found out these men, 
But I can find no rest. Though in my path 
Fame sows her ripest honours — 'tis not that 
Can give me pleasant slumber, can call back 
The colour to my cheek. Although I know 
Four of this Monck's six thousand men are mine, 
That this famed kingdom's crown hangs in the air 
And waits for my bared brow, I'm troubled — troubled : 
Thou cursed woman, thy song fills my veins 
With thrice 'gealed ice, and in mine ear thy strain 
Begins to talk of doomsday. What light 's that ? 
Has fire from heaven fallen in my camp ? Ho ! ho ! — 
Rise ! hosts of heaven, lend me your safeguard now ; 
Arise — awake— nay then, sleep on till doomsday ; 



114 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

Tis I alone that must face all the fiends ! 

(Storm y thunder, and Jire.) 

Enter Spirit of Hogan. 
Spirit Come, Halbert Comyne; we are waiting for you. 
Corny ne. Go, senseless semblance of a shallow villain, 
Thou creature cursed for cowardice — from me 
Expect brief speech — begone. (Spirit passes on.) 

(Storm, thunder, and Jire.) 

Enter Spirit of Dingwall. 
Spirit Come, Halbert Comyne ; Hell is ready for 

thee. 
Comyne. Shadow, away; the unsumm'd sins of na- 
ture, 
Grovelling and gross, so swarm'd in thee when living ; 
Hope not I'll heed thy summons— to be saved 
With such as thee would be a curse indeed ; 
So cumber not the night air with thy^presence : 
Away. (Spirit passes on.) 

(Storm, thunder, and Jire.) 

Enter Spirit of Neal. 
Spirit Come, Halbert Comyne ; there are fires pre- 
pared. 
Comyne. I will not speak to this thing, of all forms 
That merit reprobation the most abject. 
If this be thy chief pageant, hell, thou 'rt poor 
In shapes to shake men's souls. (Spirit passes on.) 

(Storm, thunder, and Jire.) 



Sc.2. StR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 115 

Enter Spirit of Hubert Dougan. 

Spirit. Comyne, this night prepare to dwell with me ; 
And by the light of hell's unquenched fire., 
We'll talk of what has passed. 

Comyne. Oh! shadow, stay; 

Stay, thou sad semblance of a noble man ; 
Stay, brave and injured spirit, stay ! Oh ! speak 
What fate hath thee befallen ? speak, Hubert, speak ! 
O ! by the time in battle when I turn'd 
The sword aside that else had found thy heart, 

! speak. O ! speak ; by all the days we pass'd 
In tender friendship, and in perilous battle; 

15y the dread wish of living with thee, spirit. 
In bliss, or deathless fire, — I do conjure thee 
To speak to me one word. By all the wrongs 

1 have imagined and have wrought on earth, 
Speak, and depart not. Silent shadow, thou 
Hast nought of Hubert Dougan, save the shape. 
Stay, horrible illusion ! Stay, and tell me 

A terrible hidden thing. (Spirit passes on.) 

O ! day-light, come ! 
Go, hideous night, thou art a fearful time ; 
Come morning, though the first beam of thy light 
Should shine on my life's blood. Pass on, dark night ! 
God, when wilt thou give day ? 

First Captain. (Wakes.) Touch him not, villain — my 
good lord — my lord, 
God keep thee safe, for I did dream I saw 
A fearful figure, with a bared sword 
About to pierce thy bosom. 



116 SIR M ARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

Second Captain. ( Wakes.) Help, oh ! help ; 
Did you cry help ? I heard a voice cry help, 
With the tongue of a wounded man. 

Third Captain. My lord, my lord, 

The round big drops have started on your brow ! 
Has some dread thing alarm'd you ? 

Enter a Soldier. 

Soldier. A dread storm, 

With hail and whirlwind, has fallen on our camp, 
And blown thy banner into the deep sea ; 
The crooked fires were running on the ground, 

And 'mid the fires My lord, John Jardine saw 

This sight as well as me ; and 'mid the fires 

Corny ne. Well ! well ! amid the fire ye felt some fear, 
And I do well believe you. Haste, pluck down 
All our pavilions, let my chosen spears 
March in the front, and let our rear guard be 
Our proof-coat cuirassiers. We pass the Nith 
Within one stricken hour — begone. 



SCENE III. A Farm House. Night. 

Simon Graeme and Mark Macgee. 

Graeme. Awake ! awake ! no time for slumber now ; 
The hour of doom is come ; so gird thee on 
Thy sword, and follow me. 

Macgee. Thou hast awaked me 

From a sweet dream ! And is it morn, that thou 
Comest forth to let thy grey locks gather rime, 



Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 117 

Or chide with men whose sweaty cheeks repose 
In slumber on their pillows. 

Graeme. Mark Macgee, 

This is, indeed,, a night, when limbs like mine 
Come not abroad for pastime. O ! what eyes, 
Sleep-shut on the soft pillow, could endure 
The tumults of this dread tempestuous night, 
Without unclosing. My old grandsire said, 
There was a night so rough, so terrible, 
So fiird with elemental moans, and throng* d, 
From heaven's dread concave to earth's trembling floor, 
With grim and ghastly faces, that sad time 
When fatal Langside's hapless field was struck : 
Old men yet talk of it ; and ancient dames 
To their grand children tell it with a changed look. 

3Iac. And dost thou think that some such fearful day 
Will follow this, and teach young maids to moan ? 

Gra. What human tongue less than inspired, orfilTd 
W r ith the gift of prophecy, may dare to blab 
About God's meaning, when he sits enthroned 
Amid majestic darkness, filling the heaven 
W r ith dismal signs and portents, that defy 
All mortal calculation. J Tis enough 
For us to know, sad meaning and dread wrath 
Were in those signs that round Caerlaverock hall 
Were visible yesternight. 

Macgee. I heard alone 

The roar of waters, the loud war of winds. 
And shaking of the cedars. A sweet sleep 
Fell on me, and dread portents saw I none. 



118 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

Graeme. And now let murder-meditators moan ; 
Let hands unwashen from spilt blood beware : 
And let the dweller in Caerlaverock towers., 
Even thou, Lord Halbert Comyne, kneel thee down, 
Among dust grovel, supplicate, and groan ! 
For, oh ! Lord Maxwell's piteous moan, even now 
Makes moist the eyes in heaven, nor can the dew 
Of life-time's golden summers blanch the stains 
Of blood which flooded all his marble floor. 

Macgee. Some fearful thing, my friend, has moved 
thee thus. 

Graeme. A thing shall move thee too. I rose and left 
The embers glowing on my lonely hearth, 
And all my children sleeping. All was mute ; 
The homely cricket's song was loudest heard. 
Forth as I walk'd, the brook began to moan ; 
The wind woke with a dismal sigh, and spoke 
As with a human tongue ; the Solway flood 
Flash'd on the shore, five fathom deep abreast ; 
And I heard tongues that made my flesh to quake. 
I stood and gazed upon the earth and heaven, 
And, lo ! I saw grim forms, perdition-doom'd, 
Fill all the land — earth shudder' d to the throng 
Of horrible phantoms, issuing o'er the bourn 
Of mortal pilgrimage. Corses unloosed 
From hearsing sheets were there, nor sweeping shrouds 
Might hold their occupants. The halter-doom'd, 
The treason-hatcher — he who fearless digs 
The grave for a quick corse — with him who drops 
The hemlock juice i' the entertainer's cup, 



Sc3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 119 

Flock'd toward Caerlaverock, like a festal throng 
Unto a nuptial banquet. There I saw, 
Trooping- i' the rear of this infernal file, 
A countenance horribly foul, and plaster'd thick 
With new spilt blood— the phantom glared on me ; 
And, summoning all hell into one frown, 
Pass'd surly by. I named him, and he stood; 
And stern the grizly spectre glared on me 
A moment's space, and vanished. 

Macgee. Simon Graeme, 

This is a winter's mirth. What curious pains 
A man devout and hoary-hair'd may take 
To fashion the moan o' the elements into 
God's indignation, when no woe was meant, 
And only the pleasant sound of the voice was heard, 
O' the commonest occurrence ! Gifted men, 
Who can divine all this, may be allow'd 
To see hearsed corses trooping, and high heaven 
With hellish faces fUl'd ; nay, even to hear 
The dying moaning on an unfought field. 
Why, what in the name o' the Lord can palsy thus 
A mind, that all his sovereign wonders fill 
With most sublime emotion ? In the coil 
O' the world's employment, and sweet whisperings 
Of nature o'er her wonders, we may make 
Phantoms, like those which haunt the murderer's sleep. 
When the pert magpye chatters on the roof 
Of my aunt's dwelling; she doth presently 
Fancy her body winding-sheet enwrapt, 
And drops into devotion. My wife too, 



120 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

Than whom a dame more duteous is not found, 
Nor one who makes such lily-looking linen, 
When the south wind sighs in the chimney top 
Her thrift she ceases, shakes her head, and says, 
Thou whistlest for no good ; looks me i' the face, 
And thinks on widowhood, and wipes her cheek. 

Graeme. It may be wit — but it is wicked wit 
Which shapes God's high and terrible purposes 
Into a meaning, for to shake men's sides 
When 'tis no time for mirth. 'Tis well, when hearts 
Are all so reckless of this tainted world ; 
They clamour not at those tremendous signs 
Of God's remembrance. I do know a heart, 
That to the lips starts, if a mouse but stir, 
Or a leaf rustle ; but I thank my God 
It beats in a far loftier breast than mine. 

Macgee. I thank God too — yet that's no proof of grace ; 
The thief who prowls at midnight by the fold 
Thanks God who doth unmuffle the full moon, 
To let him choose the fairest of the flock. 
The knight, who wins his silver spurs, thanks God, 
And from his sword-blade wipes his brother's blood. 
The churl who sickens at men's prosperousness 
Thanks God, when tempests thrash their ripen'd fields, 
Or some foul murrain thins their fairest flocks. 
So, thank God, then, not for the deeds thou doest, 
Nor for the height thou 'rt raised o'er prouder men 
In purity and wisdom ; nor for the gift 
Thou hast of fashioning heaven's familiar things 
To signs denoting wrath ; but, thank God for 



Sc. 3. SIR MAR3IADUKE MAXWELL. 121 

Fresh air to fan thee when the sun shines hot ; 
The rain that nourishes thy new-sown fields ; 
Thy rosy daughters, and thy comely sons, 
His noblest present in this world to man. 

Gra. There spoke the son of good old John Macgee, 
Than whom a better ne'er a sickle s way 'd ; 
Nor held the plow along the fallow land ; 
Nor hied to market on a Wednesday; 
Nor welcomed a neighbour by a shake of the hand ; 
Nor sung a psalm, nor read the gospel book; 
Nor pray'd to God for his dear children's weal ; 
Yet he was stifT-opinion'd, and self-will'd, 
And he would walk fifteen rough miles about, 
Rather than ride along the nearer way 
His neighbour recommended. Now, on his son, 
Thee, Mark Macgee, I call— the hour is come. 

Mac. Heaven bless thee, Simon, for that old man's sake! 
Speak ! I can now be silent as the grave ; 
Close, as cold lips of marble; still, as the deep 
In the unvoyaged, fathomless profound 
Of the untillable ocean. 

Graeme. 'Tis no secret 

Now, for the heaven has told it o'er the earth ; 
The troubled earth has echoed back the heaven, 
And children's lips ev'n lisp it. Take thy sword, 
My friend, and follow me. His doom is sign'd; 
He'll fall ere the sun shines. 

Macgee. Come, Simon Graeme ; 

Our swords are now both seated on our sides ; 
This is the gladdest hour of my whole life, 



122 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

For these three days I've lived in troubled thoughts ; 

The nights had fearful dreams. 'Twas but last night 

I lay in sweet sleep stretch'd — sudden I sprung, 

My right hand clutching at an unseen throat, 

And caird with a voice that made my young babes quake, 

" There, murderous villain, rill the grave thou madest"- 

My wife her white arms flung around my neck, 

And I awoke, and said it was a dream ; 

Only a dream ; kiss'd her, and smiled, to smoothe 

Unutterable anguish. What's thy wish ? 

Gra. That we shall place us in the murderer's path:- 
This night he passes through the fords of Nitb, 
Where death shall find him though he were in steel 
Lapt sevenfold proof; three score of hearts, and true, 
Have at my summons bared their blades, and watch 
Aside the winding river. We will strike 
Him with no secret, but an open blow. 

Macgee. Stay till my sweet wife and my little ones 
Get one sweet kiss —I shall not fight the worse for 'U 

Gra. The tenderest heart is aye the truest, bravest. 
Hush ! here's a hurried footstep — who art thou ? — 
Speak, lest I smite thee— these are not the times 

Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell. 
Come to my bosom with a bound, my son ; 
I ask'd of yon dread heaven but this one sign, 
To see thee dead or living. Thou art safe ; 
Now, Nithsdale, blessed days are thine again, 
Heaven's high decrees fulfilling. 

Macgee. My young lord, 



Sc. 3. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 123 

One kind glance of thy gallant eye is worth 
Ten thousand thousand visions. Bless thy face. 

Sir Marmaduke. Friends of my father, why do you 
keep watch 
At this dark hour, and watch with weapons too ? 

Graeme. A few nights since heaven wet these swords 
of ours 
In the blood of hired murderers : we sheathed 
Our weapons, and night after night kept watch 
For God's assurance by most fearful signs, 
That we might smite the master murderer. We 
To night have seen dread tokens, and his hour 
Is surely come ; he will not see sunrise : 
Sir Marmaduke, go with us on God's errand, 
And strike with us the slayer of thy father, 
If thou dost know the man. 

Sir Marmaduke. Oh ! name him not ; 

His name shall ever be an evil omen, 
Even to the holiest lips ; so name him not. 

Graeme. To tell thee how we found this murderer out 
Will be the unfolding of a tragic story : 
I heard of thine own perilous escape, 
From a sure hand, one whose keen eye can pierce 
Far into future woe, even one whose tongue 
Has counseFd me to keep my good sword sharp : — 
But this we'll talk of as we walk along. (Exeunt.) 



g2 



124 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 



SCENE IV. Caerlaverock Wood, by the River side. 

Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, Simon Graeme, Mark 
Macgee, and armed men. 

Graeme. Here let us stand beneath the greenwood tree, 
For he must pass down this way. Now be firm; 
Strike fierce and spare not ; but leave him to me. 
These are the tokens you shall know him by : — 
He rideth ever on a coal black steed, 
Whose long tail sweeps the ground. His black helm has 
A snowy crest that never has been soiled 
By blood or dust, but God shall smite it down 
Among men's feet. High is his warlike brow, 
And close and clustering curls his raven hair, 
And keen the glancing of his swarthy eye ; 
When he sees us, he'll wave his right hand thus, 
And say, " keep back rude churls " — leave him to me. 

Sir Marmaduke. I have some friends, all firm, assured 
soldiers, 
Derned in the greenwood. Yet have we to fight 
Against a woeful odds. 

Macgee. Yes, he has with him 

Twelve score of chosen lances, and four hundred 
Of horsemen sheathed in steel ; we are in all 
Eight score and twelve : hearken ! I hear, ev'n now, 
His horsemen prancing up the river side. 

Graeme, Lo! heaven gives not the battle to the strong ; 
The race to the swift foot. His hour is come ; 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 125 

And though he had a thousand for each one, 
Though his steel coat were triple proof, and though 
He were enclosed with lances as a grove, 
The avenger's hand would reach him. When man's 

time 
Is come that he must die, a pin would slay, 
One drop of water drown him. 

Sir Marmaduke. My sure friend, 

Thy words refresh me : I do not dread death, 
For I have dared it in its sternest shape ; 
But oh ! if heaven smile not upon our cause, 
I dread the weeping of your little ones, 
The wailing of their mothers ; that aged men 
Should tell our tale, shake their grey heads, and say, 
" They were valiant but not wise." 

Graeme: This river side 

Is a right lovely spot ; here the spring sun 
Aneath the grey trunk of that ancient tree 
First gets his balmy cowslips. I've pulled here 
Crowtoes, and violets, and the honey- suckle, 
The brown ripe nuts, and sought the song bird's nest ; 
Each one is lovely in its own sweet season ; 
And all beneath this beauteous holly bough 
I've said some soft words in a fair dame's ear. 

( Tru mpet so u nds . ) 
He is nigh now. Lo ! here the murderer comes. 
Eternal one, make the keen edged sword 
Fall sevenfold sharp. 



126 SIR MAKMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

Enter Halbert Comyne, Sir John Gourlay, 
Captains and Soldiers. 

Sir John. I had, indeed,, a bootless chace, my lord ; 
I sought for Simon Graeme ; but he was gone, 
And gone arm'd, too. Upon his cottage roof 
I threw the flame ; his wife and children wail'd, 
And old men cursed me : I shall find him yet ; 
That head of his is worth more gold to me 
Than the sack of a rich city. 

Graeme. (Aside.) Soulless villain ! 

So thou hast burn'd my little bonnie home. 
Oh ! where are ye, my children !— On my head 
A price set, too ! There doth the raven sit, 
Shall have her fill of thee. (Draws his sword.) 

Sir Marmaduke. Stay, stay, my friend ; 

I charge thee, stay ; thy hot wrath will mar all. 

Graeme. My dwelling burn'd above my little ones ! 
He who hears this with a cool heart, may he 
Howl in the hottest hell ! — Lo ! I am here. 

Sir John. Here, peasant, listen — canst thou tell me 
where 
I may find Simon Graeme. 

Graeme. I'm Simon Graeme ; 

And thou art ravens' meat. (Fight, and Exeunt.) 

Comyne. Here with your levell'd lances ! strike me 
down 
These clouted clowns, assail them on all sides ; 
Shall chaff like this uncharm me of my life? 

(Fight, and Exeunt.) 



Sc. 4. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 127 

Re-enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell and Captain. 

Captain. Home to thy plowshare, home ! 

Sir Marmaduke. I seek thy lord ; 

See thou pluck not his peril on thyself. 

(Fight, the Captain falls.) 
My men are slain or scattered : I sought death, 
But found it not. This murderer's life is charm'd, 
For twice I strove to strike him with my sword. 

Enter Another Captain. 
Captain. Yield thee, or die, for thou hast slain my 

kinsman. 
Sir Marmaduke. Twice hast thou come between thy 
chief and me ; 
Thou'lt never do it again. (Fight, the Captain falls.) 

Enter Mary Douglas. 

Sir Marmaduke. Alas ! my love, 

My star of glory is for ever set ; 
What can I do for thee. 

Mary Douglas. Fly ! fly ! Oh, fly ! 

Down in the greenwood, by the river side, 
There is a wild path shaped by lovers' feet ; 
We know it well, my love. Thy mother there 
Waits in the cavern for thee ; haste then, ha^te, 
For morning light will soon be on the hill, 
And thy foes hunt for thee on every side. (Exeunt.) 



128 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

Re-Enter Simon Graeme. 
Graeme, Fve hung his head for hawk's meat. Where,, 
oh where 
Art thou, Sir Marmaduke ? Heaven ! have I chaced 
The fox to death, and let the tiger range ? 
There are more signs, oh God, on earth than thine : 
Hell has assumed thy sceptre : I've believed 
A meteor pageant of the pit, and fought 
Evpn for mine own perdition. (Exit.) 

SCENE V. Caerlaverock Wood. 

Enter Sir Marmaduke Maxwell and Mary Douglas, 
disguised as peasants. 

Sir Marmaduke. Now weep not, soft and gentle one, 
weep not ; 
These drops yon frozen heavens will not melt, 
Nor will these sweet sobs blunt the chacer's sword, 
Nor soothe that wild and agitated sea 
Where we must soon seek shelter. 

Mary Douglas. I did hope 

The hour was come when fortune's icy breath 
Would cease to chill us ; yet, my love, oh ! yet 
The wing'd destroyer's shadow 'nights our path, 
On which no morn shall rise. 

Sir Marmaduke. My gentle one, 

My stedfast love, what have we lost ? here still 
Is thy true love and thee ; yon is the heaven, 



Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 129 

And this the good green earth : come, smile again, 
"We yet shall find a home— a humble home, 
Clad o'er with long marsh rushes ; thou shalt sing 
Songs of thine own love's making, and thy boys 
Shall plait rush swords and sceptres at thy knee. 

Mary Douglas, This is a bright spot mid the dark- 
ness. Hark ! 
I hear the thunder muttering, and, lo ! 
The lightning shoots from CrifFel to Caerlaverock : 
Dost thou not hear a steed prance? Hark again ! 
Mercy in heaven, here comes an armed man ! 

Enter Halbert Comyxe. 

Sir M* Look on that man, my lovely one ; now look 
Upon him well; he hastens on God's errand. 

Mary Douglas, 'Tis Halbert Comyne; does not the 
ground gape ? 
And is the lightning idle when a fiend 
Insults the heaven by cumbering the green earth ? 

Corny ne. Now I will seek that hoary hag; her lair 
Lies not far distant : she doth seem to know 
More of my fortune than mute stars may teach. 
My soldiers rest them by the river side, 
And wait the coming of the kindly sun. 
Now I hold fortune's clay between my palms, 
To mould it as I list. In my hand lately 
Was my sword hilt alone : swift hath it hewn 
My pathway unto fame ; and its sharp edge 
Some little princedom shall shape for me yet ; 
For civil war works wonders, and casts down 
g 5 



130 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

The meek and timid, and exalts the bold. — 
But I am haunted by a fearful Shape, 
A hated thing, which sharp fear forms of shadows ; 
Something that takes no known form, yet alarms 
Me more than my worst enemy arm'd in proof; 
A thing which haunts my slumbers ; finds me out 
In my deep dreams ; in fiercest strife where blood 
Is rife as rivulet water ; in quiet peace 
When rustic songs abound ; in silent prayer — 
For prayer, too, have I tried — still is it there ! 
Now, now, the dismal shadow glides before me, 
More visible than ever. Phantom, stay ! 
I'll know thy errand : dark and doubtful thing 
That hoverest round me as a cloud, darest thou 
No nobler semblance take ? By heaven and hell, 
What fearful change ! and yet I know thee not ; 
Thou nobler seem'st than him, and brighter lookest. 
Fly from me, spirit, trouble not the earth ; 
Fly from the gleaming of this crossed steel : 
And yet it flies not. If thou blessed art, 
Why dost thou page the heels of wickedness, 
And seek to herald hell ? Away ! begone ! 

Sir M. O, thoughtless lassie, thou hast lost a dog 
Worth half the darnes o' the parish ; he was fleet 
As wind o ? the mountain ; faithful as yon star 
Is to the grey o' the morn. Pleased I'll ne'er sip 
My curdled whey again, nor breathe my pipe 
To charm the corncrakes when the grain is green. 

Com. Cease thy wail, shepherd, and show me the way 
To Mabel Moran's home,— a dame who Jives 



Sc. 5, SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 131 

On shepherd's bounty,, and repays their alms 
By charming their hirsels from the fox's tooth. 

Sir M. I know the cummer, and her house is near. — 
I'm but a plain poor man ; I watch my sheep 
An' play on the pipe, — full blythely can I dance ; 
And read the plowmen's riddles. Maidens smile 
As I go by, and ask how many lovers 
Yon horned moon shall bring them ? When the wind 
Shakes out o' the husk the yellow corn, I cry, 
" Faith, I foretold you this."— 

Corny ne. Peace ! peasant, peace ! 

Show me the way, and silence thy rude tongue. 

Sir M. Sir, 1 must talk, for I have other gifts 
Which I will gladly teach thee. Pray, sir, pray: 
You have a river deep and dark to cross ; 
No peasant passes it without a prayer ; 
So pray, my lord, I counsel thee to pray. 

Corny ne. Who! what art thou? this alter'd voice — 
stand back ! 
I like not much thy words. 

Sir Marmaduke. Thou'lt like me worse 

Before we sunder. (Throws off' his plaid and bonnet.) 

Dost thou know me now ? 
Oh ! Halbert Comyne, much have I sought heaven 
To work its own will with thee ; I was loth 
To stain my bright sword with a villain's blood, 

Com. Since thou art stuff that can be tamed by steel, 
Then, by my soul, thou art most dearly welcome : 
I thank the fiends that placed thee in a peril 
From which there's no escape. 



132 SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

Sir Marmaduke. No more ; no more ; 

If my sword spare thee,, may my father's spirit 
Spurn me from heaven, and may my soul be doom'd 
To howl for all thy sins. (Fight.) 

Mary Douglas. (Kneels.) Ye blessed spirits 
Of holy men be present, save him ! save him ! 
And make his sword for your avengement smite. 

(Spirit of Lord Maxwell appears.) 

Corny ne. Thou fearful phantom, art thou come again? 
In hell there howls no shape could shake me thus ; 
So thou must be from heaven. What dost thou want, 
Thou awful semblance of the unrotted dead ? 
Thy glorious presence robs me of my might. — 
Sheathe thy sword, stripling, else I'll make thee mate 
To this infernal shadow. 

Sir Marmaduke. Use thy sword ; 

I will not touch thee while thy point is turn'd 
From me, and seeks to wound the silent air. 

(Spirit vanishes.) 

Comyne. Then feed the worms; shall I be shamed 
with shadows? 

Enter Lady Maxwell. 
Lady Maxwell. Mercy in heaven ! I hear the sound of 

swords ! 
Comyne. Is this thy coinage, hell? — Thou yawning 
sea, 
Where is your ancient might ? you cease to hold 
Your bloody morsels, and the faithless ground 
Has lost its fame for silence. Thus hemm'd in 



Sc. o. SIR MARMABUKE MAXWELL. 133 

By hell and heaven, my good sword, thou must try 

A way through this frail flesh. (Fights.) 

Now, what is this 
That hangs so on mine arm; makes my keen sword 
Stick in the air, and turns my nerves to rushes ; 
That freezes up the current of my heart, 
And fills mine ear with the howlings of deep hell ? 

Enter Simon Graeme. 

Graeme. Eternal villain, turn to me: God's cause 
Requires but a brief speech. (Draws his sword.) 

Sir Marmaduke. This cause is mine ; 

My arm shall work mine own revenge ; I feel 
My father's hand upon my weapon's hilt. 

Comyne. Rude churl, thou comest too late. That 
hand has stcpt 
My sea of greatness with a spade of earth. 
Thou cursed fiend that trim'st men for destruction ; 
Thou caster down of noble spirits, that paintest 
Their dreams with robes and sceptres ; pluck me swift, 
Before the hand of vengeance shakes me down 
From mine exalted bough. Come not when gored 
And spit upon I lie, the rabble's marvel ; 
Come, ere grey men their old heads shake and say, 
" Behold what murder comes to." (Falls.) 

Mary Douglas. Oh ! my love, 

The shepherd's grey plaid and the rushy sheal, — 
Earth has room for us yet. 

Lady Maxwell. O, my fair son ! 

Thrice blessed be that heavenly hand, that kept 



134 SIR MARMADURE MAXWELL. Act 5. 

That tender bosom from the murderer's sword. 

Sir Marmaduke. My honour'd mother ! may the plot- 
ter never 
Sunder us more. Bless thee,, my fair., my loved one ; 
God's hand was visible here : Oh ! my firm friend, 
God walks his way in silence till his hour — 
And then men hearken thunder. 

Comyne. Stand away, 

And let me see them ; gentle youth, come near, 
Thou and that maiden. Woe be to thy bed, 
May it be barren as the desart sea ; 
And should a baby bless thee, may this earth 
To which my body's doom'd to add its dust, 
Swallow thy darling up. O'er thy famed name 
May dark dishonour come, as comes a cloud ; 
Dread of the dagger and the drugged cup 
Frequent thy dreams; and may the sharp sword find thee 
When thy joy's fullest, and thy loved one smiles. 

{Starts up and strikes at them with his sword, and dies.) 

Sir M. All merciless and remorseless as thou lived'st, 
So hast thou died. Let men no more put trust 
In gentle carriage or in noble looks; 
Trust kindred blood no more : let sharp suspicion 
Haunt in the steps of princes. 

Graeme. Trust a spark 

Of fire among swift powder ; trust the dove 
With the fledged hawk ; the dog in the deer's den. 
Shall we the pure earth poison with his bones, 
Pollute the kindly sea, or hang him high, 
To taint the wind and feed the birds of heaven ? 



Sc. 5. SIR MARMADUKE MAXWELL. 135 

Thou didst the proverb pluck from the horn'd fiend ; 
What art thou now ? — a morsel for the crows. 

Sir M. He was a bad mail, but he was a brave one ; 
Let him be buried as a brave man should : 
We war not with his dust. My knee to thee, 
Thou noblest pattern of connubial love. — 
And wilt thou promise me, thou gentle one, 
The gift of this white hand ? 

Mary Douglas. Take hand and heart. 

Graeme. Now hang your bonnets on the horns o' the 
moon ; 
Make bridal fires, the fair dames of Dumfries 
May braid their tresses by ; the hour is come 
The dumb shall sing, and crippled limbs shall leap. 
With gallant horse-hair we will string our swords 
And make our targets fiddles — the sweet voice 
O' the pipe shall no more cease. 

Sir Marmaduke. My friend, my friend ; 

Let us not mock our sorrow in our mirth : 
Woe is a wise man's iivery. Our torn land 
Even of its noblest and its best bereft ; 
My father's blood undry'd yet in his halls ; 
Ourselves scarce from extremest perils escaped; — 
This is no time for mirth. 



THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 



THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 



i. 

There's a maid has sat on the green merse side 

These ten lang years and mair ; 
An* every first night o' the new moon 

She kames her yellow hair. 

2. 

An* ay while she sheds the yellow burning gowd, 

Fu' sweet she sings an' hie,, 
Till the fairest bird that wooes the green wood 

Is charm' d wi' her melodie. 

3. 

But wha e'er listens to that sweet sang, 

Or gangs the dame to see, 
Ne'er hears the sang o' the laverock again,, 

Nor wakens an earthlie ee. 

4. 

It fell in about the sweet simmer months 

I* the first come o' the moon, 
That she sat o' the tap of a sea- weed rock., 

A-kaming her silk-locks down. 



140 THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 

5. 

Her kame was o' the whitely pearl, 

Her hand like new-won milk, 
Her breasts were a' o' the snawy curd, 

In a net o* sea-green silk. 

6. 

She kamed her locks owre her white shoulders, 

A fleece baith bonny and lang ; 
An' ilka ringlet she shed frae her brows, 

She raised a lightsome sang. 



F the very first lilt o' that sweet sang, 
The birds forsook their young, 

An' they flew i' the gate o' the grey howlet, 
To listen the maiden's sang. 

8. 

F the second lilt o' that sweet sang, 

Of sweetness it was sae fu', 
The tod leap'd out frae the bughted lambs, 

And dighted his red-wat mou/ 



I' the very third lilt o' that sweet sang, 

Red lowed the new- woke moon ; 
The stars drapp'd blude on the yellow gowan tap, 

Sax miles that maiden roun\ 



THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 141 

10. 

I hae dwalt on the Nith, quo' the young Cowehill, 

These twenty years an' three, 
But the sweetest sang e'er brake frae a lip. 

Comes thro' the greenwood to me. 

11. 

is it a voice frae twa earthlie lips 
Whilk makes sic melodie ? 

It wad wyle the lark frae the morning lift. 
And weel may it wyle me ? 

12. 

1 dreamed a dreary thing, master, 
Whilk I am rad ye rede ; 

I dreamed ye kissed a pair o' sweet lips, 
That drapp'd o' red heart's-blede. 

13. 

Come haud my steed, ye little foot-page, 

Shod wi' the red gold roun' ; 
Till I kiss the lips whilk sing sae sweet : 

An* lightlie lap he down. 

14. 

Kiss nae the singer's lips, master, 

Kiss nae the singer's chin ; 
Touch nae her hand, quo' the little foot-page, 

If skaithless hame ye'd win. 



142 THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 

15. 

O wha will sit on yere toom saddle, 

O wha will bruik yere gluve ? 
An' wha will fauld yere erled bride 

V the kindlie clasps o ; luve ? 

16. 

He took afF his hat, a* gold i' the rim, 

Knot wi' a siller ban' ; 
He seemed a' in lowe wi' his gold raiment, 

As thro' the green wood he ran. 

17. 

The simmer-dew fa's saft, fair maid, 

Aneath the siller moon; 
But eerie is thy seat i' the rock, 

Washed wi' the white sea faem. 

18. 

Come wash me wi' thy lilie white hand, 

Below and aboon the knee ; 
An' I'll kame these links o' yellow burning gold, 

Aboon thy bonnie blue ee. 

19. 

How rosie are thy parting lips, 

How lilie- white thy skin, 
An' weel I wat these kissing een 

Wad tempt a saint to sin. 



THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 143 



20. 



Take afF these bars an' bobs o' gold, 
Wi' thy gared doublet fine ; 

An' thraw me afF thy green mantle, 
Leafed wi* the siller twine. 

21. 

An' a in courtesie, fair knight, 

A maiden's love to win ; 
The gold lacing o' thy green weeds 

Wad harm her lilie skin. 

22. 

Syne coost he afF his green mantle, 
Hemm'd wi* the red gold rotm' ; 

His costly doublet coost he afF, 
Wi' red gold flow'red down. 

23. 

Now ye maun kame my yellow hair, 
Down wi' my pearlie kame ; 

Then rowe me in thy green mantle, 
An' take me maiden hame. 

24. 

But first come take me 'neath the chin. 
An' syne come kiss my cheek ; 

An* spread my hanks o' wat'ry hair 
I' the new moon-beam to dreep. 



144 THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 

25. 

Sae first he kissed her dimpled chin ; 

Syne kissed her rosie cheek ; 
And lang he wooed her willin' lips, 

Like hether-honie sweet ! 

26. 

O, if yell come to the bonnie Cowehill, 

'Mang primrose banks to wooe ; 
I'll wash ye ilk day i' the new milked milk, 

An' bind wi' gold yere brow. 

27. 

An' a* for a drink o' the clear water 

Ye'se hae the rosie wine ; 
An' a' for the water white lilie, 

Ye'se hae these arms o' mine 

28. 

But what '11 she say, yere bonnie young briae, 

Busked wi' the siller fine ; 
Whan the rich kisses ye kept for her lips 

Are left wi' vows on mine? 

29. 

He took his lips frae her red-rose mou', 
His arm frae her waist sae sma ; 

Sweet maiden, I'm in bridal speed, 
It's time I were awa. 



THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 145 

30. 

O gie me a token o' hive, sweet May, 

A leal hive token true. 
She crapped a lock o' yellow gowden hair, 

An knotted it roun' his brow. 

31. 

O tie nae it sae strait, sweet May, 

But wi J lure's rose-knot kind ; 
My head is fa' o' burning pain, 

O saft ye maun it bind. 

32. 

His skin turned a 0' the red-rose hue, 

Wi J draps 0' bludie sweat ; 
An he laid his head 'mang the water lilies — 

Sweet maiden, I maun sleep. 

33. 

She tied ae link o' her wet yellow hair 

Aboon his burning bree; 
Amang his curling haffet locks 

She knotted knurles three. 

34. 

She weaved owre his brow the white lilie, 

Wi' witch-knots more than nine ; 
Gif ye were seven times bride-groom owre, 

This night ye shall be mine. 

H 



146 THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 

35. 

O twice he turned his sinking head, 

An* twice he lifted his ee ; 
An' twice he sought to lift the links 

Were knotted owre his bree. 

36. 
Arise, sweet knight, yere young bride waits, 

An' doubts her ale will sour ; 
An' wistly looks at the lilie-white sheets, 

Down spread in ladie-bower. 

37. 

An' she has preened the broidered silk 

About her white hause-bane ; 
Her princely petticoat is on, 

WF gold can stand its lane. 

38. 
He faintlie, slowlie, turn'd his cheek, 

And faintly lift his ee, 
And he strave to loose the witching bands 

Aboon his burning bree. 

39. 
Then took she up his green mantle, 

Of lowing gold the hem ; 
Then took she up his silken cap, 

Rich wi' a siller stem ; 
An* she threw them wi' her lilie hand 

Amang the white sea faem. 



THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 147 

40. 

She took the bride ring frae his finger 

An' threw it in the sea ; 
That hand shall mense nae ither ring 

But wi' the will o' me. 

41. 

She faulded him i' her lilie arms, 

An' left her pearlie kame ; 
His fleecy locks trailed owre the sand. 

As she took the white sea-faem. 

42. 

First rose the star out owre the hill, 
An* niest the lovelier moon ; 

While the beauteous bride o' Gallo way- 
Looked for her blithe bridegroom. 

43. 

Lightly she sang while the new-moon rose, 

Blithe as a young bride may, 
Whan the new-moon lights her lamp o' luve, 

An' blinks the bride away. 

44. 

Nithsdale, thou art a gay garden, 

Wr monie a winsome flower ; 
But the princeliest rose o' that garden 

Maun blossom in my bower. 
h 2 



148 THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 

45. 

Oh, gentle be the wind on thy leaf, 
And gentle the gloaming dew ; 

And bonnie and balmy be thy bud, 
Of a pure and stedfast hue ; 

And she who sings this sang in thy praise, 
Shall love thee leal and true. 



46. 

An* ay she sewed her silken snood, 

An' sung a bridal sang ; 
But aft the tears drapt frae her ee, 

Afore the grey morn cam. 



47. 

The sun learn' d ruddie 'mang the dew, 
Sae thick on bank and tree ; 

The plow-boy whistled at his darke, 
The milk-may answer' d hie ; 

But the lovely bride o' Galloway 
Sat wi' a tear- wet ee. 



48. 

Ilk breath o' wind 'mang the forest leaves 
She heard the bridegroom's tongue, 

And she heard the bridal-coming lilt 
In every bird which sung. 



THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 149 

49. 

She sat high on the tap-tower stane, 

Xae waiting May was there ; 
She loosed the gold busk frae her breast, 

The kame frae 'mang her hair ; 
She wiped the tear-blobs frae her ee, 

An' looked lang and sair. 

50. 
First sang to her the blithe wee bird, 

Frae arT the hawthorn green ; 
Loose out the love curls frae yere hair, 

Ye plaited sae weel yestreen. 

An' the spreckled lark frae 'mang the clouds 

Of heaven came singing down; 
Take out the bride-knots frae yere hair, 

An' let tiies „ lang locks down. 

52. 
Come, bide wi' me, ye pair o' sweet birds, 

Come down an' bide wi' me; 
Ye shall peckle o' the bread an' drink o' the wine, 

And gold yere cage shall be. 

53. 

She laid the bride-cake 'neath her head, 

And syne below her feet ; 
An' laid her down 'tween the lilie- white sheets, 

An' soundly did she sleep. 



150 THE MERMAID OF GALLOWAY. 

54. 
It seem'd i' the mid-hour o' the night, 

Her siller-bell did ring; 
An' soun't as if nae earthlie hand 

Had pou'd the silken string. 

55. 

There was a cheek touch'd that ladye's, 

Cauld as the marble stane, 
An a hand cauld as the drifting Shaw, 

Was laid on her breast-bane. 

66. 
O cauld is thy hand, my dear Willie, 

O cauld, cauld is thy cheek ; 
An' wring these locks o' yellow hair, 

Frae which the cauld draps dreep. 

67. 

O seek anither bridegroom, Marie, 
On these bosom-faulds to sleep ; 

My bride is the yellow water lilie, 
Its leaves my bridal sheet ! 



THE 

LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 



LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER, 

MARINER. 



Voyage in the Spectre Shallop, 

FITTE FIRST. 
1. 

It was Hallo wmass eve ; — like a bride at her bowering 
The moon on green Skiddaw sat shining, — and showering 
Her silver light on the Sol way waves, — steeping . 
In brightness the cormorants rocking and sleeping : 
The lone Ellenbrook 'neath the brown boughs was sim- 
mering, 
In castle and cottage the candles were glimmering ; 
No foot was abroad, — dread of witch-spell and glamour 
Bound matron and maid to the hall and the chaumer. 
In a mariner's ear the night-tide singeth sweet ; 
So I sat and I gazed, while the flood, at my feet, 
Leaped, and murmur'd: — I thought when the stifTbreeze 

was sounding, 
How my bark through the billows went breasting and 

bounding ; 
And I long'd much to lift up my halser, and fly 
Where there 's nought to be gazed at but ocean and sky. 
h5 



154 THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 

2. 
As I wish'd, lo ! there came my brightbark, Barbara Allan; 
Her fair shadow far on the moonlight flood falling ; 
Her silk pennon streaming so gay at her side, 
And her gallant sails bent all in seafaring pride: 
Around her the glad waters, leaping and flashing, 
Clave wide with delight, and away she went dashing : 
Before the fair presence of my beauteous shallop 
The cormorants fly, and the porpoises gallop ; 
The seamews dive down, and the seagulls go soaring, 
As her prow through the deep brine goes sweeping and 

snoring. 
Loud and loud came the voice from the mainland to 

hail her — 
The glad whistle, the shout, and free song of the sailor. 
John Selby, cried faint, and then bolder and bolder, 
Ci Ho ! launch out the boat, and bring me Richard 

Faulder !" 
He whistled — the boat, with one stroke of the oar, 
At my foot made a furrow ell deep in the shore. 

3. 

I laugh' d and sprung in, — soon the smitten waves parted, 

And flashed, as along to my shallop I darted. 

The mariners shoutedV nor lack'd there the tone 

Of tongues which from boyhood to manhood I'd known; 

The mariners shouted, nor lack'd they the form 

Of friends who with me had braved tempest and storm : 

And away went the shallop, with bent sail and rudder, 

And the shore gave a groan, and the sea gave a shudder. 



THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 155 

We hail'd the clear diamond on green CrifTel burning, 
That streamed on our path, like the star of the morning; 
And gleaming behind us, shot o'er the wild seas 
The Hallo wmass torches of bonnie Saint Bees ; 
The sweet glens of Cumberland lessen d, — and colder 
The moonbeam became, and the wind waken' d bolder ; 
And the sable flood roar'd, while along the rude furrow 
The slender bark flew, with the flight of an arrow. 

4. 

'Twas sweet now to hear how the strain'd canvas sung, 
As, right on our path, like a reindeer we sprung; 
'Twas sweet now to hear how the chafed wind kept 

trying 
The might of our mast, and the foaming waves frying : 
'Twas sweet from the stem to the stern to be pacing, — 
In the chart of my mind the bark's course to be tracing,— 
In some far sunny bay to be dropping our anchor ; 
Or, where the spiced woodlands tower'd greener and 

ranker, 
To chace, when the sun on the desert smote sorest, 
The fleet-footed deer, and the king of the forest ; 
Or, where the free balm richer dropt from the bushes, 
Hear the frank maiden's sighs in her shealing of rushes, 
As she thinks, while her girdle grows tighter, of sailing 
With one who had loved, and had left her bewailing:— 
Such thoughts came upon me — Mid curse and carousing, 
The Man Island smugglers sat singing and bousing ; 
They ceased as we passed, and an old man cried, " See ! 
Lo! there goes the Spectre-ship sundering the sea! 4 



156 THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 

5. 

Loud laugh'd all my mariners — and as they laugh'd, 

there 
Fell a thick smoke from heaven, that choak'd the sweet 

air; 
Loud laugh'd all the mariners — and as they laugh'd, 

whistling, 
Like the hunting hawk's wings, went the wing'd shal- 
lop rustling, 
And at once o'er our heads there came stooping a cloud 
Huge and sable, that swathed up my ship like a shroud; 
Above and about me the low thunder pudder'd, 
A dread fell upon me — the dark ocean shudder'd! 
A rush of wind came, and away the cloud pass'd — 
And there sat a hoary Old One at the mast, 
With his furrow'd brows bent down, like one in devo- 
tion, 
And his ancient eyes cast on the star-gleaming ocean. 
" Hoary father," I said, " ill it suits thee to brave 
The moisture of night, and the damp of the wave : 
Go hillock my blankets above thee — and here, 
Take this tass of strong water to charm thee and cheer ! " 

6. 
The Old One look'd up — Then the hawthorn's sweet 

timmer 
Had shed its rich bloom on my twenty third simmer, — 
The Old One look'd up — Then these hoar locks were 

black, 
As the moor-cock's soot wing, or the sea eagle's back,— 



THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 157 

But from glad three and twenty till threescore and 

seven, 
From my locks like the snow, to my locks like the 

raven, 
I never beheld such an aspect; — abaft 
I leapt in dismay, — and the Ancient One laugh'd! 
Laugh' d loud, and a thousand unseen lips laugh' d round, 
And the smooth pleasant sea murmur'd far to the sound. 
My comrades were vanish'd — men, framed by the spell 
Of the fiends, with their bark, in the dock-yards of hell, 
To wile Richard Faulder, at midnight unhallow'd, — 
When the dark angels rule,- — in the sea to be swallow' d ! 
Away flew the fiend-bark, so smoothly and fine 
That she seem'd more to swim in the air than the brine; 
The green islands stoop'd low their heads as we pass'd, 
And the stars seem'd in pairs from the firmament cast ; 
Sole charmer, alone the charm'd moon stay'd to smile, 
Till my Grey Guide dropp'd anchor before a green isle. 

FITTE SECOND. 

1. 

It was a fair land, that sprung up like the blossom- 
ing rose when the dew has falFn soft on its bosom : 
Of balm smeird the woods, and of myrrh smell'd the 
mountains ; 
' Of fruit smell'd the valleys, of wine smelFd the foun- 
tains ; 
The waves on the shore all in concert kept springing, 
With the soft nightingale sitting 'mongst the boughs 
singing; 



158 THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 

The winds in the woodtops sung to a glad tune, 

Like a small bird's voice heard 'mongst the brown bees 

in June ; 
And each time the breeze in the woodlands made stir, 
The ship's sails seemed steep'd in frankincense and 

myrrh. 
Around sang the mermaids — one swam till her hair, 
Like gold melting in silver, show'd wavering and rare ; 
One reclined on a couch all of shell-work and spars, 
And warbled charmed words to the Hesperide stars ; 
There one, with a shriek more of rapture than fear, 
With the bright waters bubbling around her, came near, 
And seeing the shallop, and forms of rude men, 
Shriek' d, — clave wide the water, — and vanish'd again. 
I stood at the helm, and beheld one asleep — 
James Graeme, a young sailor I lost in the deep ; 
All lovely as lifetime, though summer suns seven, 
Since his loss, his young sister to sorrow had given. 
A mermaid a soft couch had made him, the tender 
One sat nigh and warbled, — her voice, sweet and 

slender, 
Pierced through the mute billows; all tear-dew'd and 

shaking 
I gazed, and the form as I gazed seem'd to waken ; 
All the seamaids with song hail'd him from his long 

slumber, 
And their songs had no end, and their tongues had no 

number. 
The Old One leap'd up with a laugh — but there came 
A bright Figure past him, he ceased, — and, in shame, 



THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 159 

Dropp'd his eyes and sat mute — the rebuked ocean veil'd 
Her loose bosom, and loud all her mermaidens wail'd. 

2. 

The green land of mermaidens vanish'd, and soon 
A fair island rose, round and bright as the moon ; 
Where damsels as pure as, lone Skiddaw! thy flocks, 
Show'd blue eyes and bosoms from thickets and rocks ; 
Or lay on the sward, half reveal'd and half shielded — 
(The flowers, touch' d by beauty, a richer scent yielded) ; 
Or sat and loud love-ditties warbled, and sang 
And harp'd so melodious that all the woods rang. 
And there lay a fair one 'tween sleeping and waking, 
The breeze her dark brow-tresses moving and shaking. 
Round her temples they cluster'd all glossy and gleaming, 
Or gush'd o'er her bosom-snow, curling and streaming. 
I wish'd — for that sight chased remembrance away— 
And the bark knew my wishes, and stood for the bay: 
Less old and less ghastly my dread comrade grew— 
With the change of his look, like a levin-flash, flew 
From the stem to the stern a bright Presence — I saw 
The ancient one tremble — I prayed in mine awe, 
And named God ! with a bound from the lewd isle we 

started, 
O'er the flood like the wild flame the spectre-bark 

darted. 

3. 

The moon sunk— the flame o'er dark heaven went rushing, 
The loud thunder follow'd, the rain-flood came gushing, 



160 THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 

I sain'd myself oft, yet no shape could I see, 

Either bless'd or unbless'd, save that Old One and 

me. 
The thunder-burst ceased — dropt the wind — yet our 

flight 
Wax'd swifter — I long'd for the merry morn-light : 
No light came, and soon, shadow'd high o'er the flood. 
Rose a huge dusky outline of mountain and wood, 
And I saw a deep vale, and beheld a dark river, 
And away flew the bark as a shaft from the quiver. 
Around me the waters kept toiling and dashing, 
On the land stood a crowd their teeth grinding and 

gnashing, — 
Groups of figures, who hover' d 'tween living and dying, 
And " water ,; and u water " continually crying, — 
Loud cursing, and stooping their lips to the flood, 
While the stream as they touched it was changed into 

blood : — 
Their crime has no name— for those wretches who 

hate 
Their home and their country, her glory and state, 
Are born without name, and live nameless, and die 
As dishonour should ever. I hearkened their cry 
And gazed on their persons — in bliss or in pain 
Some marks of the semblance immortal remain; 
But those came in aspect so grisly and ghast, 
That my Grey Guide smiled scorn, and flew sullenly 

past; 
And a yell such as wolves give when baffled of blood, 
Came following us far down that dark dismal flood. 



THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 161 

4. 

And away we rusli'd on, while along the shores follow 
A shout and a shriek,, and a veil and a hollo ! 
And a thick cloud was there, and amidst it a cry 
Of the tortured in spirit flew mournfully by : 
And I saw, through the darkness, the war- steeds ca- 
reering, 
The rushing of helm' d ones, the fierce charioteering : 
I heard shouting millions, the clang of opposing 
Sharp steel unto steel, and the cry at the closing ; 
The neighing of horses, and that tender moan 
Which the smote courser yields when his glory is 

gone — 
I have heard him in battle to moan and to shriek, 
With an agony to which human agony's weak. 
I heard the trump clang — of fierce captains the cheer- 
ing — 
The descent of the sword hewing, cleaving, and shearing; 
Earth murmur'd and yawn'"d, and disclosing, like hell, 
A fathomless gulph, ate them up as they fell. 
The Old Oxi smiled ghastly with gladness, and starker 
The wild havoc wax'd, and the rolling flames darker. 
The tumult pass'd by— and a swift glance I gave, 
And the greensward stood gaping like death and the 

grave ; 
Far down, and still downward, my glance seem'd to enter, 
And beheld eartlrs dread secrets from surface to centre. 
Crush'd helms, altars, crowns, swords, and monument 

stones, 
Gods, gold, sceptres, mitres and marrowless bones — 



162 THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 

Lay thick— things immortal, men deem'd them! — for ever 
That grass will grow green, and flow on will that river ; 
The fair sun, now riding so beauteous in noon, — 
The stars all preparing for shining, — the moon 
Which maidens love much to walk under, — the flowing 
Of that stream — who can stay, or that green grass from 

growing ? 
The stars are for ever, — the wind in its flight, 
The moon in her beaming, the sun in his might : 
But man and his glory ! — the tide in the bay, 
The snow in the sun, are less fleeting than they. 

5. 
I still stood dread gazing, and lo, there came on, 
With sobbing and wailing, and weeping and moan, 
A concourse of wretches, some reverend, some regal, 
Their robes all in rags, and with claws like the eagle : 
The miser was there, with looks vulgar and sordid ; 
The lord too was there, but no longer he lorded ; 
Anointed heads came — but a monarch still stronger 
Rules now, and no king shall reign sterner or longer: 
There one stood, whose hero-blood, boiling and brave, 
Is cold as the peasant, and dull as the slave; 
And him whose proud name, while there lives a bard- 
strain, 
And a heart that can throb, must immortal remain ; 
Immortal remain too, in spite of the clods 
Of gross earth, who inherit that name of the gods. 
Beside them stood ranked up, in shadowy array, 
The harp-in-hand minstrels whose names live for aye ; 



THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 163 

Those bright minds the muses so honoured and served, 
And whom our rich nobles have lauded — and starved — 
All vision'd in glory: — in prostrate obeisance 
Mammon's mighty men fell — and seem'd damn'd by their 

presence. 
There Butler I saw, with his happy wit growing, 
Like a river, still deeper the more it kept flowing ; 
Young Chatterton's rich antique sweetness and glory ; 
And Otway, who breathes while warm nature rules story. 

6. 

The land breeze lay mute, and the dark stream lay calm, 
But my guide gave a nod, and away the bark swam ; 
And I heard from the mountains, and heard from the trees, 
The song of the stream, and the murmuring of bees ; 
From the low-bloomy bush, and the green grassy sward, 
"Were the sweet evening bird, and the grasshopper heard, 
While the balm from the woodland, and forest, and lea, 
Came dropping and sprinkling its riches on me. 
And I heard a deep shriek, and a long sob of woe ; 
And beheld a procession, all mournful and slow, 
Of forms who came down to the river in ranks, 
Their stain'd marriage garments to blanch on the banks : 
Ranks of regal and noble adultresses steeping 
Their limbs and their robes, and still wailing and weep- 
ing; 
Vain toil — all the water of that dismal river 
Can cleanse not those stains — they wax deeper than ever. 
One came and gazed on me — then filTd all the air 
With shriekings, and wrong' d her white bosom, and hair; 



164 THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 

All faded and fallen was the glance and the mien 

Of her whom I woo'd and adored at eighteen. 

She fell from her station, forsook the pure trust 

Of my heart — wedded — sinn'd, and sunk deeper than 

dust : 
To my deep sleep by night and my waking by day, 
There's a fair vision comes that will not pass away. 
I turn'd mine eyes from her ; — the bark, fast and free, 
Went furrowing the foam of the bonnie green sea. 

FITTE THIRD. 

1. 

We furrow'd the foam of the bonnie green sea, 

And sweet was the sound of its waters to me ; 

We bore away eastward ; it seem'd as grey day 

Gan to mottle the mountains— away, and away, 

As we wanton'd, the billows came curling in night 

I' th' eastward, — but westward they sparkled in light. 

The wind in our mainsail sang fitful and loud, 

And the cry of the sea-eagle came from the cloud ; 

We pass'd wooded headland, and sharp promontory, 

And ocean-rock famous in maritime story ; 

Till the sun with a burst o'er the tall eastern pines, 

Shower'dhis strength on the ocean in long gleaming lines — 

And lo ! and behold ! we rode fair in the bay 

Of that fairest of friths, the broad sunny Solway : 

There tower'd haughty Skiddaw; here rose Criffel green ; 

There, haunted Caerlaverock's white turrets between, 

Green Man, like a garden, lay scenting the seas ; 

Gay maidens gazed seaward from sunny Saint Bees — 



THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 165 

Dumfries's bright spires, Dalswinton's wild hill, 
Comlongan's grey turrets, — deep Nith, winding still 
Tween her pine-cover' d margins her clear-gushing 

waters, 
Which mirror the shapes of her song-singing daughters ; 
Thou too, my own Allanbay, sea-swept and sunny ; 
Whitehaven for maidens, black, comely, and bonny ; 
And generous Arbigland, by mariners hallow'd, 
A name known in prayer, and in blessing, and ballad. 

2. 

As I look'd, two gay barks from their white halsers broke 
With a shout o'er the billows from Barnhourie rock ; 
Their white pennons flaunted, their masts seem'd to bend, 
As they pass'd the rough headland of cavern'd Colvend; 
My ancient guide smiled, and his old hand he lay'd 
On the helm, — and the ship felt his wish and obey'd : 
Her head from sweet Allanbay suddenly turning, 
Sprung away — and the billows beneath her seem'd 

burning. 
Nigh the sister barks came, and the deep shores were 

ringing 
With a merry wild legend the seamen kept singing, 
Nor man's voice alone o'er the sea- wave could render 
Bard's labour so witching, and charming, and tender ; 
For I heard a rich voice through that old legend pour'd, 
The voice too of Her I long served and adored ; 
Hard fortune, false friends, and mine ill-destinie, 
And the dark grave have sunder' d that sweet one from 
me. 



166 THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 

3. 

Soon the sister barks came, and shout, yelloch, and mirth, 
Now rung in the water, and rung in the earth ; 
And I saw on the decks, with their merry eyes glancing, 
And all their fair temple locks heaving and dancing, 
Not my true love alone ; but maids mirthsome and free, 
And as frank as the wind to the leaf of the tree. 
There wasKatherineOneen, Lurgan's bonniest daughter, 
Gay Mally Mac bride, from the haunted Bann water, 
And she who lays all seamen's hearts in embargoes, 
Who have hearts for to lose, in old kind Carrickfergus. 
Green Nithsdale had sent me her frank Nannie Haining, 
With an eye that beam'd less for devotion than sinning; 
Mary Carson the meek, and Kate Candlish the gay, 
Two maids from the mountains of blythe Galloway; 
And Annand, dear Annand, my joys still regarding, 
Sent her joyous Johnstone, her b]ythesomer Jardine ; 
And bonnie Dumfries, which the muse loves so well, 
Came gladdening my heart with her merry Maxwell ; 
And loveliest and last, lo ! a sweet maiden came, 
I trust not my tongue with recording her name, — 
She is flown to the land of the leal, and I'm left, 
As a bird from whose side the left wing has been reft. 

4. 

Glad danced all the damsels— their long flowing hair 

In bright tresses swam in the dewy morn air ; 

More lovely they look'd, and their eyes glanced more 

killing, 
As the music wax'd louder, and warmer, and thrilling ; 



THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 167 

The waves leap'd and sang, and seem'd with the meek 

lute 
To keep, not to give, the meet time to the foot. 
The shaven masts quiver'd, the barks to the sound 
Moved amid the deep waters with start and with bound ; 
All the green shores remurmur'd, and there seemed to 

run 
Strange shapes on the billows ; the light of the sun 
Was lustrous and wild, and its shooting gleam gave 
More of cold than of warmth to the swelling sea- wave. 
I trembled and gazed, for I thought on the hour, 
When the witch has her will, and the fiend has his power, 
And the sea-spirit rides the dark waters aboon, 
Working mariners woe 'neath the Hallowmass moon. 
And I thought on my old merry mate, Martin Halmer, 
Doomed till doomsday to sail in a vessel of glamour, 
Between sunny Saint Bees and the Mouth of the Orr — 
Wives pray still, as shrieking he shoots from the shore. 



Now nigh came the sister barks — nigher and nigher— 
More gay grew the song, more melodious the lyre ; 
More lovely maids look'd, and their feet leap'd more free, 
The rocks rung, and more merrily sung the green sea : 
And I gazed, for I could not but gaze, and there stood — 
Meek and mild her dark eye-glance down-cast on the 

flood- 
That fair one whose looks, while ships swim the salt sea, 
While light comes to morning, and leaves to the tree, 
While birds love the greenwood, and fish the fresh river, 
Shall bless me, and charm me, for ever and ever. 



168 THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 

I deem'd that nought evil might mimic the light 

Of those dark eyes divine, and that forehead so bright, 
Nought from the grim sojourn unhallow'd, unshriven, 
Dared put on the charms, and the semblance of heaven ; 
She glanced her eye on me — from white brow to bosom, 
All ruddy she wax'd, as the dewy rose blossom. 

1 calTd on my love — with a blush and a sigh, 

And side-looking, as still was her wont, she drew nigh. 

6. 
" Heaven bless thee ! " I said, — even while I was 

speaking, 
The phantom barks vanished, with yelling and shrieking ; 
And mine Ancient Guide glared, as a tiger will glare, 
When he comes to his den and the hunters are there : 
And changing his shape, to a cormorant he grew, 
Thrice clanging his wings round the shallop he flew ; 
And away from the sea and the shore, in his flight, 
Fast faded and vanish'd that charmed day-light. 
Down on the dread deck then my forehead I laid, 
Call'd on Him that's on high — to his meek Son, I pray'd : 
The spectre bark shook — 'neath my knees seem'd to run 
The planking, like snow in the hot summer sun : 
Such darkness dropt on me as when the sea wars 
With the heaven, and quenches the moon, and the stars ; 
And my dread guide flew round me, in swift airy rings, 
Stooping down, like a sea raven, clapping his wings — 
A raven no more, now a fire he became, 
And thrice round the shallop has flown the fiend-flame ; 
In the flame flew a form ; and the bark, as he shot 
Shrivel' d down to a barge, and a bottomless boat — 



THE LEGEND OF RICHARD FAULDER. 169 

And I call'd unto him who is mighty to save ; 

Swift his spirit flew down and rebuked the sea- wave, 

And smote the charm'dboat; with a shudder it sounded 

Away through the flood, on the greensward I bounded ; 

And back flew the boat, to a black mist I saw 

It dissolve — I gazed seaward in terror and awe ; 

While my Fiend Guide passed off, like a shadow, and said 

" Mahoun had not power to harm hair of thy head ! " 

I praised God, and pondering sought gladly my way, 

To the merriment-making in sweet Allanbay. 

But never may landsman or mariner more 

Muse in Hallowmass eve on that haunted sea shore ; 

Nor behold the fiend's wonders he works in the main, 

With my Guide and his dread Spectre Shallop again ! 



TWENTY SCOTTISH SONGS. 



i2 



SONGS. 



KNOW YE THE FAIR ONE WHOM I LOVE. 

1. 

Know ye the fair one whom I love? 

High is her white and holy brow ; 
Her looks so saintly-sweet and pure, 

Make men adore who come to wooe. 
Her neck, o'er which her tresses hing, 
Is snow beneath a raven's wing. 

2. 

Her lips are like the red-rose bud, 
Dew-parted in a morn of June ; 

Her voice is gentler than the sound 
Of some far-heard and heavenly tune. 

Her little finger, white and round, 

Can make a hundred hearts to bound. 

3. 

My love's two eyes are bonnie stars, 
Born to adorn the summer skies ; 

And I will by our tryste-thorn sit, 
To watch them at their evening rise; 

That when they shine on tower and tree. 

Their heavenly light may fall on me. 






174 SONGS. 

4. 

Come, starry eve, demure and gray, 
Now is the hour when maidens wooe, 

Come shake o'er wood, and bank, and brae, 
Thy tresses moist with balmy dew : 

Thy dew ne'er dropt on flower or tree, 

So lovely or so sweet as she. 

5. 

The laverock's bosom shone with dew, 

Beside us on the lilied lea, 
She sung her mate down from the cloud 

To warble by my love and me ; 
Nor from her young ones sought to move, 
For well she saw our looks were love. 



BONNIE LADY ANN- 

1. 

There's kames o 7 honey 'tween my hive's lips. 

An' gold amang her hair, 
Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil ; 

Nae mortal een look there. 
What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch, 

Or what arm o' luve dare span 
The honey lips, the creamy palm, 

Or the waist o' Lady Ann ! 



SONGS. 175 

2. 

She kisses the lips 0' her bomrie red rose, 

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew ; 
But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip, 

Maun touch her Ladie mou. 
But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle 0' gold, 

Her jimpy waist maun span — 
O she's an armfu' fit for heaven, 

My bonnie Ladie Ann. 

3. 

Her bower casement is latticed wi s flowers, 

Tied up wi' silver thread, 
An* comely sits she in the midst, 

Men's longing een to feed. 
She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, 

Wi' her milky, milky ham, 
An ? her cheeks seem touch'd wi ? the ringer 0' God, 

My bonnie Ladie Ann ! 



The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gold, 

Like my hive's broider'd cap, 
An' on the mantle which my luve wears 

Is monie a golden drap. 
Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch 

Cast by no earthlie han' • 
An' the breath o' Heaven's atween the lips 

O' my bonnie Ladie Ann ! 



176 SONGS. 

5. 

I am her father's gardener lad, 

An' poor, poor is my fa' ; 
My auld mither gets my sair-won fee, 

Wi' fatherless bairnies twa. 
My een are bauld, they dwall on a place 

Where I darena mint my han', 
But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers 

O* my bonnie Lady Ann. 



MY AIN COUNTREE. 

1. 

The sun rises bright in France, 

And fair sets he ; 
But he has tint the blythe blink he had 

In my ain countree. 
O ! gladness comes to many, 

But sorrow comes to me, 
As I look o'er the wide ocean 

To my ain countree. 



O ! itfc not my ain ruin 
That saddens aye my ee, 

But the love I left in Galloway, 
Wi' bonnie bairns three ; 



SONGS. 177 



My namely hearth burn d bonnie, 
And smiled my fair Marie, — 

I've left a? my heart behind me ; 
In my am countree. 

3. 

The bud comes back to summer, 

An' the blossom to the bee, 
But I win back — oh never ! 

To my ain countree. 
Fm leal to the high heaven, 

Which will be leal to me ; 
An there I'll meet ye a' soon, 

Frae my ain countree. 



I'LL GANG NAE 3IAIR TO YON TOWN, 



I'll gang nae mair to yon town. 

Betide me joy, betide me pain; 
I've tint my heart in yon town, 

And dare na gang the gate again. 
The sun shall cease to thowe the snaw, 

The corn to shoot wF simmer rain, 
When I gang back to yon town, 

And see the gate my heart has gane. 
i 5 



178 SONGS. 

2. 

Yestreen I went to yon town, 

Wi heart in pleasure panting free,, 
As stag won from the hunter's snare, 

Or birdie building on the tree ; 
But ae half-hour tint all my peace, 

And lair'd my soul in dool and pain, 
And weary fa' the witchcraft wit 

That winna let it free again. 

3. 

Had I but been by fortune's hand 
In the silk lap of grandeur thrown, 

And she had trimm'd the humblest home 
That ever rose in Caledon ; 

I'd clad her in a starry robe, 

And claspt her to my bosom fain ; 

And blest the happy hour I went 
To see the mirthsome town again. 

4. 

She's fairer than a summer morn, 

And purer than the spotless sky ; 
Far is the journey to her heart, 

She measures in her haughty eye. 
But she is sweeter than the rose 

New bathed amang the balmy rain — 
And I maun gang to yon town, 

And see the lovesome maid again. 



SONGS. m 

THE WANTON WIFE. 

1. 

Nith, trembling to the reapers' song, 

Warm glimmered in the morning sun, 
And murmur' d up the greenwood glen, 

Where Kate the wanton cummer wonne. 
Her tongue aye wagg'd wi' graceless wit, 

Stayed by nor kirk nor gospel ban ; 
And aye she wish'd the kirk-yard mools 

Were green aboon her auld goodman. 

2. 
Her auld goodman dropt in at e'en, 

Wi harvest-hook sore toil'd was he ; 
Sma' was his cog, and cauld his kale, 

Yet anger never raised his ee. 
He blest the little, and was blythe, — 

While Kate wi' clamorous tongue began ; 
Now sorrow clap thy auld bald pow, 

And dance w'ye to the mools, goodman. 

3. 

He looked at her, but did nae speak, 

And down he lay in dool and pine; 
While she sat singing in the nook, 

And touting at the rosy wine. 
The lark amid the morning grey, 

That wont to cheer him workward gaun, 
Next morning miss'd among the dew 

The blythe and dainty auld goodman. 



180 SONGS- 

4. 

The third morn- dew on bank and tree 

'Gan in the rising- sun to glow, 
When sung the wanton wife to see 

His feet gaun foremost o'er the knowe. 
The first flight of the winter rime., 

That on the kirk-yard sward had faun. 
She skift it from his lowly grave, 

A-kirking wi' her new goodman. 



A dainty dame I wot she was ; 
. Baith brent and burnish* d was her brow 
*Mang curling love-locks, and her lips 

Were daisies born 'mang may-day dew ; 
And lightsome was she in the dance, 

When ha' was het, or kirn was wan ; 
Her hands seem'd drifts of virgin snow, 

In cauld December's bosom faun. 

6. 

But long ere winter's winds flew by, 

She skirled in her lonesome ho we; 
Her husband wi* a hazel rung 

Began to kame her wanton powe. 
Her hearth was quench'd with woe and care, 

Toom grew her chest, and cauld her pan 
And driegh and dowie wax'd the night, 

Ere beltane, with her new goodman. 



SONGS. 181 

7. 
She dreary sits 'tween naked wa's, 

Her cheeks ne'er dimpling into mirth, 
Half happit, haurling out of doors, 

And hunger-haunted at her hearth. 
Her faded eyes are full of tears, 

Her voice is changed, her cheek is wan ; 
And loud and bitter are her sobs, 

When she thinks on her auld goodman. 



A WEARY BODIE'S BLYTHE WHAN THE SUN 
GANGS DOWN. 

1. 

A weary bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down, 
A weary bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down: 
To smile wi' his wife, and to daute wi' his weans, 
Wha wadna be blythe whan the sun gangs down ? 

2. 

The simmer sun's lang, an* we've a* toiled sair, 
Frae sun-rise to sun-set's a dreigh tack o' care ; 
But at hame for to daute 'mang our wee bits o' weans, 
We think on our toils an' our cares nae mair. 



182 SONGS. 

3. 

The Saturday sun gangs ay sweetest down, 
My bonnie boys leave their wark i' the town ; 
My heart loups light at my ain ingle side, 
Whan my kin' blythe bairn-time is a' sitting roun\ 

4. 

The sabbath morning comes, an' warm lowes the sun, 
Ilk heart's full o ? joy a' the parishen roun'; 
Round the hip o' the hill comes the sweet psalm tune, 
An' the auld fowk a' to the preaching are bowne. 

5. 

The hearts o' the younkers loup lightsome, to see 
The gladness which dwalls in their auld grannie's ee ; 
An' they gather i' the sun,' side the green haw-tree, 
Nae new-flown birds are sae mirthsome an* hie. 

6. 

Tho' my sonsie dame's cheeks nae to auld age are prief, 
Tho 7 the roses which blumed there are smit i' the leaf; 
Tho' the young blinks o' luve hae a* died in her ee, 
She is bonnier an' dearer than ever to me ! 



I mind when I thought the sun didnae shine 

On a form half so fair, or a face so divine ; 

She was wooed in the parlour, and sought in the ha', 

But I won her away frae the wit o* them a'. 



SONGS. 183 



Ance Poortith came in 'yont our hallan to keek. 
But my Jeanie was nursing an' singing sae sweet, 
That she laid down her powks at anither door-cheek, 
An steppit blythely ben her auld shanks for to beek. 



My hame is the mailen weel stockit an' fu, 

My bairns are the flocks an' the herds which I loo ; — 

My Jeanie is the gold an' delight o 7 my ee, 

She's worth a hale lairdship o' mailens to me ! 

10. 

O wha wad fade awa like a flower i' the dew. 
An' nae leave a sprout for kind heaven to pu' ? 
Wha wad rot 'mang the mools, like the stump o 7 the tree, 
Wi nae shoots the pride o' the forest to be ? 



THE LASS OF PRESTON-MILL. 



The lark had left the evening cloud, 

The dew fell soft, the wind was lowne, — 

Its gentle breath amang the flowers 
Scarce stirred the thistle's top of down ; 



184 SONGS. 

The dappled swallow left the pool, 
The stars were blinking o'er the hill, 

When I met among the hawthorns green 
The lovely lass of Preston-mill. 

2. 

Her naked feet amang the grass 

Shone like two dewy lilies fair ; 
Her brow beamed white aneath her locks 

Black curling o'er her shoulders bare ; 
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth, 

Her lips had words and wit at will, 
And heaven seem'd looking through her een, 

The lovely lass of Preston-mill. 



Quoth I, fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me, 

Where black-cocks crow, and plovers cry ? 
Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep, 

Six vales are lowing wi' my kye. 
I have looked long for a weel-faured lass, 

By Nithsdale's holms, and many a hill — 
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose, 

The lovely lass of Preston-mill. 



I said, sweet'maiden, look nae down, 
But gie's a kiss, and come with me ; 

A lovelier face O ne'er look'd up, — 
The tears were dropping frae her ee. 



SONGS. 185 

I hae a lad who's far aw a*, 

That weel could win a woman's will ; 
My heart's already full of love,, — 

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill. 

5. 

Now who is he could leave sic a lass. 

And seek for love in a far countree ? 
Her tears dropp'd down like simmer dew ; 

I fain had kiss'd them frae her ee. 
I took ae kiss o' her comely cheek — 

For pity's sake., kind sir, be still ; 
My heart is full of other love. 

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill. 

6. 

She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands, 

And lifted up her watry ee — 
Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God, 

Or light is gladsome to my ee ; 
While woods grow green, and burns run clear., 

Till my last drop of blood be still, 
My heart shall haud nae other love., 

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill. 

7. 

There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks, 

And Nith's romantic vale is fu' ; 
By Ae and Clouden's hermit streams 

Dwells many a gentle dame., I trow. 



186 SONGS. 

O ! they are lights of a bonnie kind, 
As ever shone on vale and hill, 

But there's ae light puts them all out,- 
The lovely lass of Preston-mill. 



THE LAVEROCK DRIED HIS WINGS I' THE SUN. 



The laverock dried his wings i' the sun, 

Aboon the bearded barley, 
When a bonnie lad to my window came, 

Wi' me to hand a parley. 
Are you dreaming o ? me, my winsome lass, 

Or thinking o' me I ferly; 
Arise, and come to the faulds wi' me, 

Amang the dews sae pearly. 



First I put on my jupes sae green, 

And kilted my coaties rarely, 
And dipp'd my feet in the morning dew, 

And went wi' bonnie Charley. 
It's sweet to be waken'd by ane we love, 

At night, or morning early; 
Its sweet to be kiss'd as forth we walk, 

By the lad we love sae dearly. 



SONGS. 187 

3. 
The sun he rose, and better rose, 

And o'er the hills low'd rarely ; 
The wee lark sang, and higher sang, 

Aboon the bearded barley. 
We woo'd sae lang on the sunny knowe, 

Where the gowan heads hang pearly, 
Till the tod broke into the lambkin's fauld, 

And left my lad fu' barely. 



THE BROKEN HEART OF ANNIE. 

1. 

Down yon green glen, in yon wee bower, 

Lived fair and lovely Annie : 
Ere she saw seventeen simmer suns, 

She waxed wond'rous bonnie. 
Young Lord Dalzell at her bower door 

Had privily been calling, 
When she grew faint, and sick of heart, 

And moanings filTd her d walling. 

2. 

I found her as a lilie flower, 

When dew hangs in its blossom, 

Wet were her cheeks, and a sweet babe 
Hung smiling at her bosom. 



188 SONGS. 

Such throbs ran through her frame, as seem'd 

Her heart and soul to sever; 
In no one's face she look'd — her bloom 

Was fading — and for ever. 

3. 

Thou hast thy father's smile, my babe, 

Maids' eyes to dim with grieving, 
His wiling glance, which woman's heart 

Could fill with fond believing ; 
A voice that made his falsest vows 

Seem breathings of pure heaven, 
And get, from hearts which he had broke, 

His injuries forgiven. 

4. 

My false love came to me yestreen, 

With words all steep 'd in honey, 
And kiss'd his babe, and said, sweet wean, 

Be as thy mother bonnie. 
And out he pulFd a purse of gold, 

With rings and rubies many — 
I looked at him, but could not speak, 

YeVe broke the heart of Annie. 

5. 

It's not thy gold and silver bright, 
Thy words like dropping honey, 

Thy silken scarfs, and bodice fine, 
And caps all laced an' bonnie, 



SONGS. 189 

Can bring me back the peace I've tint, 

Or heal the heart of Annie ; 
Speak to thy God of thy broken vows., 

For thou hast broken many. 



BRIGHT STARS DINNA PEEP IN. 

1. 

Bright stars dinna peep in, 

To see me wi' Mary, 
An' O thou bright an' bonnie moon, 

Don't at her window tarry. 
Sair yestreen ye scared me, 
Sair yestreen ye barred me, 
Frae kisses kind ye marred me, 

Ye peep'd sae in on Mary. 

2. 

Mary's a winsome quean, 

Light as ony fairy ; 
Mary's a gentle quean, 

Oh I daute her dearly. 
An' when the moon is moving, 
She loves to go a roving, 
An' then she's leal an' loving, — 

My ain sweet Mary. 



1D0 SONGS. 

THE YOUNG MAXWELL. 

1. 

Where gang ye, ye silly auld carle, 
Wi yere staff and shepherd fare ? 

I'm gaun to the hill, thou sodger man, 
To shift my hirsels' lair. 

Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, 
An' a good long stride took he ; 

I trow thou be a freck auld carle, 
Will ye show the way to me. 

2. 

For I have ridden down bonnie Nith, 

Sae have I the silver Orr, 
And a for the blood of the young Maxwell, 

Which I love as a gled loves gore. 
And he is gone with the silly auld carle 

Adown by the rocks sae steep, 
Until that they came to the auld castle, 

That hangs o'er Dee sae deep. 

3. 

The rocks were high, the woods were dark, 

The Dee rolfd in his pride ; 
Light down and gang, thou sodger man, 

For here ye mayna ride. 
He drew the reins of his bonnie grey steed, 

And gayly down he sprang, 
His warcoat was of the scarlet fine, 

Where the golden tassels hang. 



SONGS. 191 

4. 

He threw down his plaid, the silly auld carle, 

The bonnet frae 'boon his bree, 
And who was it but the young Maxwell, 

And his good brown sword drew he. 
Thou kilPd my father, thou vile southron, 

Sae did ye my brethren three, 
Which broke the heart of my ae sister 

I loved as the light of my e'e. 

S. 

Now draw thy sword, thou vile southron, 

Red wet wi' blood o' my kin ; 
That sword it cropt the fairest flower 

E'er grew wi' a head to the sun ; 
Take ae stroke for my dear auld father, 

Take twa for my brethren three, 
And there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister 

I loved as the light o' my e'e. 



THE SHEPHERD SEEKS HIS GLOWING HEARTH. 

1. 

The shepherd seeks his glowing hearth, 

The fox calls from the mountain, 
The folded flocks are white with rime, 

Swans seek the silent fountain ; 
And midnight starless is and drear, 

And Ae's wild waters swelling, 
Far up the lonesome greenwood glen, 

Where my fair maiden's dwelling. 



192 SONGS. 

2. 
Wild is the night— green July's eve, 

Ne'er balmier seem'd or warmer ; 
For I sing thy name, and muse on thee, 

My mild and winsome charmer; 
Thy bower sheds far its trysting light 

Through the dark air of December — 
Thy father's dreaming o'er his wealth, 

Thy mother's in her chamber. 

3. 

Now is the time for talk, my love, 

Soft sighing, mutual wishing, 
Heart-throbbings, interchange of vows, 

Words breathed mid holy kissing ; 
All worldly maxims, wisemen's rules, 

My raptured soul disdaineth ; 
For with my love the world is lost, 

And all the world containeth. 



THOU HAST VOW'D BY THY FAITH, MY JEANIE. 
1. 

Thou hast vow'd by thy faith, my Jeanie, 

By that pretty white hand of thine, 
And by all the lowing stars in heaven, 

That thou wad aye be mine : 
And I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie, 

And by that kind heart of thine, 
By all the stars sown thick o'er heaven, 

That thou shalt aye be mine. 



SONGS. 193 

2. 
Foul fa' the hands wad loose sic bands, 

And the heart wad part sic love ; 
But there's nae hand can loose the band, 

But the ringer of Him above. 
Though the wee wee cot maun be my bield, 

And my clothing e'er sae mean, 
I should lap up rich in the faulds of love, 

Heaven's armfu' of my Jean. 

3. 

Thy white arm wad be a pillow to me, 

Far softer than the down ; 
And love wad winnow o'er us his kind kind wings, 

And sweetly we'd sleep and soun. 
Come here to me, thou lass whom I love, 

Come here and kneel wi' me, 
The morning is full of the presence of God, 

And I cannot pray but thee. 

4. 
The wind is sweet amang the new flowers, 

The wee birds sing saft on the tree. 
Our goodman sits in the bonnie sunshine, 

And a blythe auld bodie is he ; 
The Beuk maun be ta'en when he comes hame, 

Wi' the holie psalmodie, 
And I will speak of thee when I pray, 

And thou maun speak of me. 



194 SONGS. 

MY NANIE O. 

1. 
Red rowes the Nith 'tween bank and brae, 

Mirk is the night and rainie-o, 
Though heaven and earth should mix in^storm, 

I'll gang and see my Nanie-o ; 
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 

My kind and winsome Nanie-o, 
She holds my heart in love's dear bands, 

And nane can do't but Nanie-o. 



In preaching time sae meek she stands, 

Sae saintly and sae bonnie-o, 
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace 

For thieving looks at Nanie-o ; 
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 

The world's in love with Nanie-o ; 
That heart is hardly worth the wear 

That wadnae love my Nanie-o. 

3. 
-t My breast can scarce contain my heart, 
Wnen dancing she moves fmely-o; 
T guess what heaven is by her eyes, 
They sparkle so divinely-o;* 

* In the Nanie-o of Allan Ramsay these four beautiful lines 
will be found ; and there they might have remained, had their 
beauty not been impaired by the presence of Lais and Leda, and 
Jove and Danae. 



SONGS. 196 

My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o; 

The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie-o ; 
Love looks frae 'neath her long brown hair, 

And says, I dwell wi' Nanie-o. 

4. 

Tell not, thou star at grey day light. 

O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie-o, 
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew 

When coming frae my Nanie-o ; 
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 

None ken o* me and Nanie-o ; 
The stars and moon may tell't aboon, 

They winna wrong my Nanie-o. 



MY HEART IS IN SCOTLAND. 

1. 

My heart is in Scotland, my heart is not here, 
I left it at hame with a lass I love dear : 
When the twilight star shines over turret and tree, 
I bless its light, Jeanie, and think upon thee. 
What distance can fasten, what country can bind, 
The flight of my soul, or the march of my mind ? 
Though hills rise atween us, and wide waters flow, 
My heart is in Scotland wherever I go. 

2. 

|As the clear moon arises, O say, dost thou walk, 
|With the footsteps of him that's departed to talk ; 
k2 



196 SONGS. 

To thy white neck and locks where yon brook slumbers 

calm,, 
Lends the woodbine its odomy the violet its balm ? 
Or when thou return'st to thy chamber of rest, 
Dost thou mark yon bright witness, hung high in the 

west ? 
To its light hold thy pure hands, far purer than snow, 
And vow thou wilt love me, come gladness or woe ? 



The groves which we wooed in, the glens with their 

streams, 
Still cheer me awake, and still charm me in dreams ; 
The flower and the bush, and the bank and the tree, 
Come each with their tidings, my fair one, of thee ; 
The minutes seem'd proud of thy presence, nor flew — 
Thy white arms clasp'd kinder, mair sweet thy lips grew, 
And the blue sky above, and the pure flood below, 
Shone and slept, for they seem'd of our rapture to know. 

4. 

Now where are love's twilight walks ? where the soft 

sigh, 
The chaste greeting, and mild benediction of eye ? 
The hours when earth's glories seem'd dust at our feet ? 
The sorrow to sunder, the rapture to meet ? 
I left them in Scotland's green valleys at hame, 
And far from the heaven which holds them I came : 
Come wealth or come want, or come weal or come woe, 
My heart is in Scotland wherever I go. 



SONGS. 197 



THE MARINER. 



1. 



Ye winds which kiss the groves' green tops, 

And sweep the mountain hoar, 
O, softly stir the ocean waves 

Which sleep along the shore ; 
For my love sails the fairest ship 

That wantons on the sea : 
O, bend his masts with pleasant gales, 

And waft him hame to me. 

O leave nae mair the bonnie glen, 

Clear stream, and hawthorn grove, 
Where first we walked in gloaming grey, 

And sigh'd and look'd of love; 
For faithless is the ocean wave, 

And faithless is the wind — 
Then leave nae mair my heart to break, 

'Mang Scotland's hills behind. 



19S SONGS. 



LORD RANDAL, 



1. 

A cold wind and a starless sky, 

Hills white with sifted snaw ; 
A lady weeping at midnight, 

By a lone castle wa' ! 
Oh ! come Lord Randal, open your door 

Oh! open and let me in; 
The snaw hangs in my scarlet robe, 

The sleet dreeps down my chin. 

2. 

Oh! come Lord Randal, open your door, 

Oh ! open that I may see 
Ae glance but of that bonnie blue eye, 

That charmed my heart frae me :. 
Oh ! come Lord Randal, open your door. 

Or speak, that I may know 
Once mair the music of that tongue 

That wrought me all my woe. 

3. 

Her voice sank low as the tender babe's 

That makes its gentle moan ; 
A cry still heard by that castle wa', 

In midnight mirk and lone : 



SONGS. 199 

Lord Randal call'd his true love thrice, 

And wept, and paused to hear; 
But, ah ! ne'er mortal voice again 

Might win that lady's ear. 



BONNIE MARY HALLIDAY. 



Bonnie Mary Halliday, 

Turn again, I call you ; 
If you go to the dewy wood, 

Sorrow will befal you : 
The ring dove, from the lonely wood, 

Is wailing sore and calling ; 
And Annan water 'tween its banks 

Is foaming far and falling. 

2. 

" Gentle Mary Halliday, 

Come, my bonnie lady ; 
Upon the river's woody bank, 

My steed is saddled ready : 
For thy haughty kinsman's threats, 

My faith shall never faulter; 
The bridal banquet's ready made, 

The priest is at the altar. 



190 SONGS. 

THE YOUNG MAXWELL. 
1. 

Where gang ye, ye silly auld carle, 

Wi yere staff and shepherd fare ? 
I'm gaim to the hill, thou sodger man, 

To shift my hirsels' lair. 
Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, 

An' a good long stride took he ; 
I trow thou be a freck auld carle, 

Will ye show the way to me. 

2. 

For I have ridden down bonnie Nith, 

Sae have I the silver Orr, 
And a' for the blood of the young Maxwell, 

Which I love as a gled loves gore. 
And he is gone with the silly auld carle 

Adown by the rocks sae steep, 
Until that they came to the auld castle, 

That hangs o'er Dee sae deep. 

3. 

The rocks were high, the woods were dark, 

The Dee roll'd in his pride ; 
Light down and gang, thou sodger man, 

For here ye mayna ride. 
He drew the reins of his bonnie grey steed, 

And gayly down he sprang, 
His warcoat was of the scarlet fine, 

Where the golden tassels hang. 



SONGS. 191 

4. 
He threw down his plaid,, the silly auld carle, 

The bonnet frae 'boon his bree, 
And who was it but the young Maxwell, 

And his good brown sword drew he. 
Thou killed my father, thou vile southron, 

Sae did ye my brethren three, 
Which broke the heart of my ae sister 

I loved as the light of my e'e. 

5. 

Now draw thy sword, thou vile southron, 

Red wet wi r blood o' my kin ; 
That sword it cropt the fairest flower 

E'er grew wi' a head to the sun ; 
Take ae stroke for my dear auld father, 

Take twa for my brethren three, 
And there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister 

I loved as the light o' my e'e. 



THE SHEPHERD SEEKS HIS GLOWING HEARTH. 
1. 

The shepherd seeks his glowing hearth, 

The fox calls from the mountain, 
The folded flocks are white with rime, 

Swans seek the silent fountain ; 
And midnight starless is and drear, 

And Ae's wild waters swelling, 
Far up the lonesome greenwood glen, 

Where my fair maiden's dwelling. 



102 SONGS. 

2. 

Wild is the night— green July's eve, 

Ne'er balmier seem'd or warmer ; 
For I sing thy name, and muse on thee, 

My mild and winsome charmer; 
Thy bower sheds far its trysting light 

Through the dark air of December — 
Thy father's dreaming o'er his wealth, 

Thy mother's in her chamber. 

3. 

Now is the time for talk, my love, 

Soft sighing, mutual wishing, 
Heart-throbbings, interchange of vows, 

Words breathed mid holy kissing ; 
All worldly maxims, wisemen's rules, 

My raptured soul disdaineth ; 
For with my love the world is lost, 

And all the world containeth. 



THOU HAST VOW'D BY THY FAITH, MY JEANIE. 
1. 

Thou hast vow'd by thy faith, my Jeanie, 

By that pretty white hand of thine, 
And by all the lowing stars in heaven, 

That thou wad aye be mine : 
And I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie, 

And by that kind heart of thine, 
By all the stars sown thick o'er heaven, 

That thou shalt aye be mine. 



SONGS. 193 

2. 
Foul fa' the hands wad loose sic bands, 

And the heart wad part sic love ; 
But there's nae hand can loose the band, 

But the finger of Him above. 
Though the wee wee cot maun be my bield, 

And my clothing e'er sae mean, 
I should lap up rich in the faulds of love, 

Heaven's armfu' of my Jean. 

3. 

Thy white arm wad be a pillow to me, 

Far softer than the down ; 
And love wad winnow o'er us his kind kind wings, 

And sweetly we'd sleep and soun. 
Come here to me, thou lass whom I love, 

Come here and kneel wi' me, 
The morning is full of the presence of God, 

And I cannot pray but thee. 

4. 
The wind is sweet amang the new flowers, 

The wee birds sing saft on the tree. 
Our goodman sits in the bonnie sunshine, 

And a blythe auld bodie is he ; 
The Beuk maun be ta'en when he comes hame, 

Wi' the holie psalmodie, 
And I will speak of thee when I pray, 

And thou maun speak of me. 



194 SONGS. 

MY NANIE O. 

1. 
Red rowes the Nith 'tween bank and brae, 

Mirk is the night and rainie-o, 
Though heaven and earth should mix inistorm, 

I'll gang and see my Nanie-o ; 
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 

My kind and winsome Nanie-o, 
She holds my heart in love's dear bands, 

And nane can do't but Nanie-o. 

c 2. 

In preaching time sae meek she stands, 

Sae saintly and sae bonnie-o, 
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace 

For thieving looks at Nanie-o ; 
My Nanie-o_, my Nanie-o ; 

The world's in love with Nanie-o ; 
That heart is hardly worth the wear 

That wadnae love my Nanie-o. 

3. 
t My breast can scarce contain my heart, 
Wnen dancing she moves finely-o; 
T guess what heaven is by her eyes, 
They sparkle so divinely-o;* 

* In the Nanie-o of Allan Ramsay these four beautiful lines 
will be found ; and there they might have remained, had their 
beauty not been impaired by the presence of Lais and Leda, and 
Jove and Danae. 



SONGS. 196 

My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o; 

The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie-o ; 
Love looks frae 'neath her long brown hair, 

And says, I dwell wi' Nanie-o. 

4. 
Tell not, thou star at grey day light, 

O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie-o, 
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew 

When coming frae my Nanie-o ; 
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o ; 

None ken o'me and Nanie-o ; 
The stars and moon may tell't aboon, 

They winna wrong my Nanie-o. 



MY HEART IS IN SCOTLAND. 

1. 

My heart is in Scotland, my heart is not here, 
I left it at hame with a lass I love dear : 
When the twilight star shines over turret and tree, 
I bless its light, Jeanie, and think upon thee. 
What distance can fasten, what country can bind, 
The flight of my soul, or the march of my mind ? 
Though hills rise atween us, and wide waters flow, 
My heart is in Scotland wherever I go. 

2. 

I As the clear moon arises, O say, dost thou walk, 
I With the footsteps of him that's departed to talk ; 
k2 



196 SONGS. 

To thy white neck and locks where yon brook slumbers 

calm, 
Lends the woodbine its odour/ the violet its balm ? 
Or when thou return'st to thy chamber of rest, 
Dost thou mark yon bright witness, hung high in the 

west ? 
To its light hold thy pure hands, far purer than snow, 
And vow thou wilt love me, come gladness or woe ? 

3. 

The groves which we wooed in, the glens with their 

streams, 
Still cheer me awake, and still charm me in dreams ; 
The flower and the bush, and the bank and the tree, 
Come each with their tidings, my fair one, of thee ; 
The minutes seem/d proud of thy presence, nor flew — 
Thy white arms clasped kinder, mair sweet thy lips grew, 
And the blue sky above, and the pure flood below, 
Shone and slept, for they seem'd of our rapture to know. 



Now where are love's twilight walks ? where the soft 

sigh, 
The chaste greeting, and mild benediction of eye? 
The hours when earth's glories seem'd dust at our feet ? 
The sorrow to sunder, the rapture to meet ? 
I left them in Scotland's green valleys at hame, 
And far from the heaven which holds them I came : 

Come wealth or come want, or come weal or come woe, 

My heart is in Scotland wherever I go. 



SONGS. 197 



THE MARINER. 



1. 



Ye winds which kiss the groves' green tops, 

And sweep the mountain hoar, 
O, softly stir the ocean waves 

Which sleep along the shore ; 
For my love sails the fairest ship 

That wantons on the sea : 
O, bend his masts with pleasant gales, 

And waft him hame to me. 

2. 

O leave nae mair the bonnie glen, 

Clear stream, and hawthorn grove, 
Where first we walked in gloaming grey, 

And sigh'd and look'd of love; 
For faithless is the ocean wave, 

And faithless is the wind — 
Then leave nae mair my heart to break, 

'Mang Scotland's hills behind. 



198 SONGS- 



LORD RANDAL, 



1. 

A cold wind and a starless sky, 

Hills white with sifted snaw ; 
A lady weeping at midnight, 

By a lone castle wa' ! 
Oh ! come Lord Randal,, open your door 

Oh! open and let me in; 
The snaw hangs in my scarlet robe > 

The sleet dreeps down my chin. 

2. 

Oh! come Lord Randal, open your door. 

Oh ! open that I may see 
Ae glance but of that bonnie blue eye., 

That charmed my heart frae me :. 
Oh ! come Lord Randal, open your door., 

Or speak., that I may know 
Once mair the music of that tongue 

That wrought me all my woe. 

3. 

Her voice sank low as the tender babe's 

That makes its gentle moan ; 
A cry still heard by that castle wa' 3 

In midnight mirk and lone : 



SONGS. 199 

Lord Randal call'd his true love thrice, 

And wept, and paused to hear; 
But, ah ! ne'er mortal voice again 

Might win that lady's ear. 



BONNIE MARY HALLIDAY. 

1. 

Bonnie Mary Halliday, 

Turn again, I call you ; 
If you go to the dewy wood, 

Sorrow will befal you : 
The ring dove, from the lonely wood, 

Is wailing sore and calling ; 
And Annan water 'tween its banks 

Is foaming far and falling. 

2. 

<c Gentle Mary Halliday, 

Come, my bonnie lady ; 
Upon the river's woody bank, 

My steed is saddled ready : 
For thy haughty kinsman's threats, 

My faith shall never faulter; 
The bridal banquet's ready made, 

The priest is at the altar. 



200 SONGS. 



Gentle Mary Halliday, 

The towers of merry Preston 
Have bridal candles gleaming bright, 

So busk thee, love, and hasten : 
Come, busk thee, love,, and bowne thee, 

Through Tinwald and green Mouswal ; 
Come, be the grace and be the charm, 

To the proud towers of Machusel." 



Bonnie Mary Halliday, 

Turn again, I tell you ; 
For wit an ? grace, an loveliness, 

What maiden may excel you ? 
Though Annan has its beauteous dames, 

And Corrie many a fair one; 
We canna want thee from our sight, 

Thou lovely, and thou rare one. 



Bonnie Mary Halliday, 

When the cittern's sounding, 
We'll miss thy lightsome lilie foot, 

Amang the blythe lads bounding ; 
The summer sun shall freeze our veins, 

The winter moon shall warm us ; 
Ere the like of thee shall come again, 

To cheer us and to charm us. 






SONGS. 201 

O MY LOVE IS A COUNTRY LASS. 

1. 

my love is a country lass, 

And I am but a country laddie ; 
But true love is nae gentleman. 
And sweetness is nae lofty lady. 

1 make my bed 'mang brackens green ; 

My light's the moon, round, bright, an bonnie ; 
And there I muse the summer night 
On her, my leal and lovely Jeanie. 

2. 

Her gown spun by her ain white hand ; 

Her coat sae trim of snowy plaiden ; 
Is there a dame in all the land 

Sae lady-like in silk and satin ? 
Though minstrel lore is all my wealth ; 

Let gowks love gold and mailens many, 
I'm rich enough when I have thee, 

My witty, winsome, lovely Jeanie. 

3. 

O ! have you seen her at the kirk, 

Her brow with meek devotion glowing ? 
Or got ae glance of her bright eye, 

Frae 7 neath her tresses dark and flowing? 
Or heard her voice breathe out such words 

As angels use — sweet, but not many ? 
And have ye dream'd of aught sinsyne, 

Save her, my fair, my lovely Jeanie? 
k 5 



202 SONGS. 

THE LORD'S MARIE. 

1. 

The Lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks 

Up wi' a golden kame, 
An' she has put on her net-silk hose,, 

An' awa to the tryste has gane. 
O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks., 

An' saft, saft on her brow ; 
Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberrie lip. 

An' I kiss'd it afF, I trow ! 

2. 

O whare gat ye that leal maiden, 

Sae jimpy laced an* sma' ? 
O whare gat ye that young damsel, 

Wha dings our lasses a? 
O whare gat ye that bonnie, bonnie lass, 

Wi' Heaven in her ee ? 
Here's ae drap o' the damask wine ; — 

Sweet maiden, will ye pree ? 

3. 

Fu' white, white was her bonnie neck, 

Twist wi' the satin twine, 
But ruddie, ruddie grew her throat, 

While she supp'd the bluid-red wine. 
Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo^ 

Wha wears the golden kame ; 
This night will mony drink thy health, 

An ken na wha to name. 



SONGS. 203 

4. 

Play me up c Sweet Marie/ I cry'd, 

An' loud the piper blew, — 
But the fiddler play'd ay struntum strum-, 

An' down his bow he threw : 
Here's thy kind health i' the ruddie red wine, 

Fair dame o' the stranger land ! 
For never a pair o' een before 

Could mar my gude bow-hand. 



Her lips were a cloven honey-cherrie, 

Sae tempting to the sight ; 
Her locks owre alabaster brows 

Fell like the morning light, 
An' O ! her honey breath lift her locks, 

As through the dance she flew, 
While luve laugh'd in her bonnie blue ee, 

An' dwalt on her comely mou'. 

6. 

Loose hings yere broider'd gold garter, 

Fair ladie, dare I speak ? 
She, trembling, lift her silky hand 

To her red, red flushing cheek. 
Ye've drapp'd, ye've drapp'd yere broach o'gold, 

Thou Lord's daughter sae gay : 
The tears o'erbrimm'd her bonnie blue ee, 
O come, O come away ! — 



204 SONGS, 

7. 
O maid, unbar the siller bolt, 

To my chamber let me win, 
An take this kiss, thou peasant youth, 

I daur na let ye in. 
An* take/ quo she', this kame o' gold, 

Wi' my lock o* yellow hair, 
For meikle my heart forbodes to me, 

I never maun meet ye mair ! 



GLOSSARY. 



Airt, quarter of the heaven, point of the compass. 

Bigged, built. 

Braw, brave, handsome, pleasant, powerful. 

Bodle, a Scottish coin, the third of an English penny. 

Belled, bald on the crown of the head. 

Bread-winner, a fiddle by which the owner won his bread. 

Brocket, white flecked with black. 

Brownie, a domestic fiend, the Billie-blin and lubber-fiend of 

England. 
Bughted, folded ; sheep are bughted when in the fold. 
Bruik, enjoy, possess ; well may ye bruik it, well may ye enjoy it. 
Busked, to deck, to attire oneself. 

Bree, eyebrow ; " Ee nor bree," still a proverbial phrase. 
Blinks, smiles. 

Blobs, drops, large drops of dew. 
Bauld, bold, forward. 
Brent, upright, high, having a fresh hue. 
Beltane, a festival on the first of May. 
Bairntime, all the children of one mother. 
Bield, shelter, refuge from a storm. 
Bracken, fern. 
Cantraip, a witch's spell, or charm, or incantation. 



206 GLOSSARY. 

Carlin, an old woman. 

Claes, cloaths, garments. 

Cog, a hollow circular vessel of wood. 

Cushats, ring-doves, wood pigeons. 

Cummers, female companions. 

Coost, threw off, undressed. 

Chaumer, chamber. 

Dool, sorrow, lamentation, woe. 

Dub of darkness, lake of darkness. 

Douce, sedate, respectable, grave. 

Doited, stupid with age, decline of the understanding. 

Duds, garments much the worse of the wear. 

Dree, suffer, endure, long suffering. 

Darke, a day's work, from light to dark. 

Dreigh, wearysome, a road weary to the feet and the eye. 

Dowie, sorrowful, dejected, cast down, lonely. 

Daute, fondle, a father's or a lover's caress. 

Dings, surpasses, outshines, overthrows, 

Doo, dove. 

Elf-arrows, elves' missiles, which inflict diseases on flocks. 

Elfshot, a wound from an elf's arrow. 

Erled-bride, betrothed-bride. 

Eerie, lonely, with something of superstitious dread 

Foumart, polecat. 

Flow, Solway-flow, Solway-morass, a dangerous quagmire, 

Faem, foam. 

Gaun, going. 

Gomeral, a senseless fellow, a blockhead. 

Gowk, a harmless, talkative, foolish person. 

Gowan, the field or wild daisy. 

Gloaming, twilight. 

Glamour, supernatural deception of sight, the effect of a spell. 



GLOSSARY. 207 

Gled, the kite. 

Hauselock-grey, locks of wool, cut from the throats of sheep, 

when mixed with black wool form hauselock-grey. 
Hodan-gray, cloth of that colour worn by the peasantry, coarse, 

and made from wool of the natural hue undyed. 
Hanks of hair, long tresses, separated like quantities of yarn. 
Hether-honie, honey gathered from heath-bloom, the richest 

honey. 
Haffet-locks, tresses which hang on maiden's temples and cheeks. 
Hause-bane, the bone of the throat. 
Haurling, dragging one's self along. 
Hallan, a partition, a screen to ward the wind from a door. 
Hirpling, walking lamely. 
Hirsel, a flock. 

Jimpy, slender, tight, handsome. 
Ingleside, the side of a hearth fire. 
Kittle-cast, a sudden, an unhappy, an untoward fate. 
Kittler of catgut, a fiddler, tickler of fiddle strings. 
Kilted-kimmer, a maiden with her coats tucked mid -leg high. 
Kitted-whey, thickened whey. 

Karnes, combs of honey, combs for fastening the hair. 
Knurles, hard knots made purposely difficult to loose. 
Kirn, the last cut of standing corn, harvest home. 
Lythe, to sweeten, to soften, mitigate, or assuage. 
Lilt, lilting, the singing of a cheerful song. 
Lowed, burned, flamed far. 
Lift, the sky, the visible firmament. 
Leal, true, loyal, faithful. 
Learned, shone with a pure and beautiful light. 
Laverock, the skylark. 

Laired, to be sunk in a mire, or a quicksand. 
Lowne, the wind was lowne, breathing low, so as to be scarce 

heard. 



208 GLOSSARY. 

Muckle, a large quantity, pre-eminent. 

Mirk-Monday, dark-Monday, the day of an eclipse. 

Mense, to grace, to honour. 

Merse, pasture land on the sea side. 

Mahoun, the enemy of man's salvation, the Devil, Mahomet. 

Mint, to offer, to presume. 

Mailens, rented farms. 

Mools, a quantity of earth, churchyard earth. 

Pellock, the porpoise. 

Pyke, pick. 

Prief, proof. 

Pree, taste. 

Reaver, a robber of henroosts, a stealer of cattle. 

Rannel-tree, a chimney-beam to which the pot is hung. 

Rowes, rolls. 

Shealing, sheal, a hut, the summer residence of the shepherds. 

Saul to gude, asking divine protection. 

Syne, then, since. 

Sinsyne, since then, afterwards. 

Snood, the fillet which binds a virgin's hair. 

Sugh, a sugh, a rustling sound, the whistling of wings. 

Sark, shirt. 

Skaithless, to escape without injury. 

Sained, to make the sign of the cross, to recommend one's self to 

divine protection. 
Skirled, a shrill, a female scream. 
Tryster-tree, the appointed tree of meeting. 
Thairms, fiddle-strings. 
Tass, a drinking cup. 
Tod, the fox. 
Toom, empty, hollow. 
Timmer, wood, timber. 
Tint, lost. 



GLOSSARY. 209 

White-mutched dames, white-capped dames ; mutch, a coif, a 

woman's head-dress. 
Wraith, a spectral appearance, denoting early death to those who 

see it, or those whose shape it assumes. 
Witch- knots, knots fastened hy witchcraft or spell. 
Winsome, gay, agreeable, beautiful, engaging. 
- Witch-tree, the mountain-ash, called witch-tree, from the charm 

it is supposed to contain against witchcraft. 



THE END. 



C. Baldwin, Printer. 
New Bridge-st. London. 



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